Wild Mull: A Natural History of the Island and its People 1784272760, 9781784272760

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Wild Mull

Lower waterfalls, Aros Park

Wild Mull

A Natural History of the Island and its People Stephen Littlewood and Martin Jones

PELAGIC PUBLISHING

Published by Pelagic Publishing PO Box 874 Exeter EX3 9BR UK www.pelagicpublishing.com Wild Mull: A Natural History of the Island and its People ISBN 978-1-78427-276-0 Paperback ISBN 978-1-78427-277-7 ePub ISBN 978-1-78427-278-4 PDF Copyright © Stephen Littlewood and Martin Jones 2021 For legal purposes the Acknowledgements and Photographers’ Credits on pp. 280–3 constitute an extension of this copyright page. The moral rights of the authors have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Apart from short excerpts for use in research or for reviews, no part of this document may be printed or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, now known or hereafter invented or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher. A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library. Front cover: White-tailed Eagle flying over the sea, Isle of Mull. © George Cox / 500px Back cover: A summer view from Caliach. © Martin Jones

Langamull

Contents Foreword by Mark Cockervii Introductionx Chapter 1

The Fairest of the Isles

1

Chapter 2

The Land that Holds the Life

15

Chapter 3

People and the Shaping of Mull

35

Chapter 4

Invasions, Extinctions and Mull’s Own ‘Gene Genie’

59

Chapter 5

Fangs, Fins and Fur

83

Chapter 6

Raptors of Eagle Island

105

Chapter 7

In Their Element – the Seabirds

131

Chapter 8

Extraordinary Landbirds

147

Chapter 9

The Kingdom of the Celtic Rainforest

169

Chapter 10

Plants of Place and Purpose

191

Chapter 11

Life Beyond the Strandline

217

Chapter 12

Beautiful Beasties

241

Postscript

The Forever Future

261

Acknowledgements and Photographers’ Credits280 Bibliography284 Useful Contacts for Further Information287 Watching and Photographing Wildlife on Mull287 List of Species Referred to in the Text288 Index292

For Ollie and Joey, and Rosie

Common Tern, Croig

Foreword I’m thrilled to write a foreword for this book, and not just because the content is superb and the whole thing visually beautiful. It is also the fact that Mull looms large in my memory and has been the setting for some of my most exciting wildlife encounters. I was lured there originally more than 20 years ago, when the story of its most charismatic residents was spreading rapidly among the naturalist community. We’re now so accustomed to hear of these animals and of their recent steep rise in numbers – particularly of the glamour twins which the authors rightly call ‘the Mull magnets’ – that we forget just how rare it was at one time to see an Otter or White-tailed Eagle. In fact, prior to my Mull visit I’d never seen the first and my only eagle was a shape disappearing into a Suffolk autumn mist. Even now I recall the very moment when I absorbed in full exhilarating fashion that first true encounter with a White-tailed Eagle: the bird soaring over the southern shoulder of Mull’s Ben More. It is typical of the island’s reputation as a place apart that there was not just a single bird: there were three, and of these – in case we needed comparative detail – one was a Golden Eagle. Even more compelling was my first Mull Otter. We were on Loch Scridain as a rising tide sloshed the dark matt of bladderwrack across the boulders. The two Otters hunted among these underwater thickets and we could follow their progress by a sequence of rising bubbles, or by the weed-topped pulse of water as one nosed its submerged route through the shallows. About one in four of their dives was successful, then an Otter would come ashore and we could hear the crunch of crab or fish flesh while the creature gobbled it down with open-mouthed relish. As always with Otters, the necessities of life turned quickly to play and the two creatures melted into one many-limbed ball of writhing, eel-like sinew. When once they managed to disentangle, the victor climbed a boulder and looked

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all-commanding, except for the wide plume of walrus’s whiskers and a piece of bladderwrack draped slantwise across the forehead and covering one eye, like a king with a crown tilted for comic effect. The authors of this book rightly embrace those elements that highlight Mull’s exceptional status for wildlife. Yet what makes the project so exciting for me is the breadth of their approach. They appreciate that no single portion of this glorious Inner Hebridean island can be filleted out for exclusive treatment. The landscape can only be genuinely understood as the sum of all its parts. Stephen and Martin know this and have thus presented a fully rounded portrait of the whole natural environment. Here are the eagles, otters and dolphins, the headline performers which generate millions of pounds in ecotourism for the island’s community. Yet here also, and treated with the same loving attention to detail, are the Orange Pox Lichen, the Porcelain Crab and the Acorn Barnacle. I love the breadth of their overview. This is my kind of book. But it also describes my kind of place. And it is this quality in Mull that the authors celebrate and emphasise and which perhaps needs a little more explanation. For many years I have enjoyed the wildlife of East Anglia, especially the glorious coasts and wetlands of Suffolk or Norfolk, but I can barely think of a single nature-rich place that is not now a reserve or a designated landscape, complete with its array of noticeboards, visitors’ centres and slatted boardwalks. At all times in these areas you are made aware that someone else is telling you how to view the landscape and what it is worth. Don’t get me wrong: I cherish those reserves as some of the finest wildlife spots, but they are often all that is left – and my heart sinks when I reflect that they invariably exist as separate islands in a sea of industrial agriculture devoid of anything but the human project. Mull isn’t anything like that. I once wrote that, as far as I could judge, there existed on South Uist in the Outer Hebrides ‘a more harmonious reconciliation between nature and people than anywhere else in Britain’. I don’t know why I limited it to this one island, because

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I cannot think of any part of the whole greater Hebridean archipelago where that same dispensation doesn’t prevail. It certainly exists on Mull. Stephen and Martin put it perfectly when they bid us recall that ‘wildness is not somehow separate from the human world. It is influenced and shared by nature and people together.’ In these extraordinary islands the inhabitants have managed to integrate their livelihoods into the wider ecosystem. There is no large gulf between place and people, between the natural and the domesticated. On Mull they are all party to one thing and it makes the place not just deeply affecting, but also somehow liberating. Yet let’s not paint it as some kind of heaven. There are problems on the island as well. The authors are alive to the issues. They tell us about the smothering effects of non-native rhododendrons in some parts and on p. 235 you will find reference to Lulu. She was a female among a pod of Orcas resident around Mull’s coast who, when washed up on neighbouring Coll, proved to have some of the highest concentrations of toxic pollutants ever recorded in a marine mammal. Mull isn’t utopia. But nor is it some relict of the past where we can experience how things once were and can never be again. In many ways the island is a beacon for the future and of what can happen when we come to value more deeply the restorative impact of nature. If I were to sum all this up, I would suggest that Mull is a complete place and this book is the complete guide to all of its exceptional qualities.

Mark Cocker

Author and naturalist

Introduction To deploy the ‘get-out’ clauses from the outset, and to avoid confusion and embarrassment, it should be explained that the name ‘Mull’ is used throughout much of this book as a generic title for the group of islands which, in addition to the main island, includes Iona, Ulva, Staffa, the Treshnish Isles and every islet betwixt and between. It should also be admitted that any errors or omissions rest entirely with the author – and hopefully will not detract from the original idea for this book that it should go beyond being a simple guide to the wildlife of Mull. A story that beats the drum for the island, its inhabitants and biodiversity is long overdue, but we wanted to tell a tale of natural history with all its twists and turns, including the influence of people from past to present – to explore Mull’s unique DNA, if you will – whilst also encouraging the reader to delve into the fine grain of the land- and seascape, fill in some of the gaps themselves and find their own way to the beauty and wonder of this extraordinary place. The book is thus a paean to the entire wild nature of Mull and its surrounds, not just a walk-through of wonderful and exotic headline species. That is what zoos are for. However, ‘wild’ is a word that is much overused these days. In a truly wild state, every day is a struggle and capricious, everything has connections and relationships, and even the tiniest organism has an important role. Mull is a place of wildness significantly untamed, undeveloped and uncultivated; sparsely populated; and, most importantly, a place where exquisite flora and fauna is mostly self-willed. Wild places in beautiful landscapes are now a commodity in short supply, fast becoming the most valued and sought after of Earth’s assets, and one that we go to great lengths and personal expense to experience for ourselves. Yet none of us is a detached observer of the wild. Simply being in a place makes us a part of it. We see ourselves as watching an eagle, but the eagle is just as keenly watching us, so wherever we are, our presence has some kind of impact, however slight. Sadly, in a strange contradiction to this love affair with the wild, our species continues to put extraordinary resources into ensuring that nature be tamed, degraded or, at worst, extinguished. When the environment is despoiled, so much of what is best and vital about the

Introduction

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human condition is also lost, and we are now gazing wittingly into a dystopian future where nature is struggling to reinvent itself and many people are alarmed at what they see. There is therefore a growing awareness of the need to open our eyes to the natural world, to nurture it as our partner in a better future. To do this we need to love it, but to offer more as well. We must record it, try to understand its complexity, and be sensitive and responsive to its needs. What is clear is that this is no longer about just cherry-picking the good bits. To understand Mull’s natural history, we need to appreciate every part of it – to connect today’s wild to its history, its geology, climate, struggles and, above all, to people. Human intervention has had a profound effect on Mull, as elsewhere, occasionally by deliberate engineering of biodiversity but mostly as a straightforward consequence of the struggle through the ages to survive. Today we are more fortunate. We can learn from the past and make informed choices about the future. That is our pleasure, our burden and our challenge. This book accordingly sets out to showcase an exceptional and still thriving example of wildness, diversity and wonder, in which people can immerse themselves and by which they can be invigorated. Its aim is to enhance the experience of exploring this extraordinary group of islands and seas, and to afford space in which to reflect upon the quiet voice of nature. It is intended both as a celebration and as an implicit call for a covenant between people and nature in the future. The reader will not find here the definitive reference guide to the flora and fauna of Mull and its islands, but the story pauses regularly to examine exceptional species, their habits, habitats and peculiar characteristics. This is a showcase for the facets that together make Mull and its surrounds the wildlife gem that it is, whilst at the same time not sidestepping challenges and threats. It is the never-ending story of a group of Hebridean islands that are astonishingly resilient, generous and fully deserving of the attention and accolades that have been poured upon it. We believe that there is something here for everyone who loves beauty, loves engaging with nature and loves life. Welcome to Wild Mull.

The impressive Ben More range with Loch na Keal in the foreground

Ulva Ferry

ONE

The Fairest of the Isles ‘Descriptions of countries without the natural history of them are now said to be defective.’ Martin Martin, A Description of the Western Isles of Scotland (1716)

❁ The Isle of Mull is of the isles the fairest, Of ocean’s gems ’tis the first and rarest; Green grassy island of sparkling fountains, Of waving woods and high tow’ring mountains. ❁

The Mull ‘national anthem’ ‘Of the isles the fairest’? Of course! There is no room for false modesty at the beginning of a story about a place that eclipses the ordinary so comprehensively that it stands today as one of the transcendent wildlife destinations in Europe. The words above come from the Mull ‘national anthem’, An t-Eilean Muileach, written by Dugald MacPhail around the 1840s. Although a true Muileach (a person born and bred on Mull), Dugald was living and working as an engineer in Newcastle when he wrote the song. These were bitter times for Mull. From a peak of 10,500 people, the island’s population was in steep decline due to migrations and clearances. Even 50 years earlier, in 1793, the Rev. Dougal Campbell, Minister of Kilfinichen, had expressed his sorrow at emigrations that were tearing Muileachs away from their beloved homeland, saying that ‘no people are more attached to their native country and it is only want that obliges them to leave it’. It is no surprise that in exile the bard had a romantic yearning for, and unquenchable pride in, the island’s landscape and evocative natural world. On the site of Dugald’s home, beside what is now the A849 road, a cairn – made of stone from the original house – was raised in his memory

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His antecedents were cattle breeders and drovers who had lived for 800 years in Glen Forsa, where MacPhails farm today. Throughout those preceding 800 years and for thousands of years before, the flora and fauna of Mull were primarily resources that had the wholly practical function of feeding and housing people, with little thought as to their aesthetic appeal or the merits of biodiversity, let alone connectivity to global ecosystems. Dugald was a prolific writer, but this one intimate tribute to his homeland ensured that his name lives on in the world of Gaelic music. His song was described by Sir Hugh Roberton – who, in the early twentieth century, was considered Britain’s pre-eminent chorus master and conductor of Britain’s most outstanding choir, the Glasgow Orpheus Choir – as ‘the finest folk song in existence’.

The nature of nature In many ways this book sits squarely within the Mull tradition of people’s self-​ conscious pride in their island, tempered by the knowledge that Mull is vulnerable to the vicissitudes of globalisation. It is not an immutable or sacrosanct place. It is the scene of dynamic relationships that are in turns predictable and unpredictable – nothing stands still, and nothing stands alone. What follows will reveal to the reader a landscape within which each rock, burn, plant and animal (including people) is the product of a unique experience, forged both from its immediate interactions with everything else and from chains of interrelationships that go back for tens, hundreds or many thousands of years. It is a complex history that we can only partially shed light on here, but we aspire to whet the reader’s appetite to explore for themselves more about the nature of nature on Mull, its patterns and associations, and our own place within it. However, in tandem with celebrating it we should be mindful of the challenges that the island’s natural history faces, the conflicts and tensions in play, and the positives and difficulties faced in looking towards the island’s future.



The Fairest of the Isles

3

Wild Mull The wild Isle of Mull, together with its surrounding seas and islands (of which there are many including Iona, Ulva, Gometra, Inch Kenneth, Staffa and the Treshnish archipelago), has a deserved reputation for its exhilarating landscape, outstanding biodiversity and some of the finest wildlife-watching in Britain. This reputation attracts people in search of experiences that are scarce and priceless in a world where most nature has been tamed and largely sculpted by people to their own needs and desires, where everything is commodified and where wildlife is too often and increasingly squeezed into the margins – or even driven to extinction. Mull has stubbornly retained a rare quality that people require. Wildness is here. We generally assume that wildness must occupy a physical space – wilderness – explicitly dedicated to hosting self-willed, self-sustaining nature and having limiting boundaries. However, to quote the late J. A. Baker, wilderness does not have to be a designated land. It can be a quality or spirit that lives on in a place ‘as shadowy as the archetype of a dream, but real, and recognisable. It lives where it can find refuge, fugitive, fearful as a deer. It is rare now.’ Mull exhibits that sense of being untamed. For all the trappings and incursions of modern life, it remains quintessentially at ease with nature, and will hold in thrall those who come with an open mind and a respect for wild plants and animals. There are many such folk. Some come in search of the ultimate wildlife experience, beating a path to Oban to embark on a ferry ride to Utopia. Countless others, simply hoping to be absorbed into the accumulated wonders of nature, have uniquely discovered comfort and excitement in equal measure. So intoxicating is the taste of this that it lingers long after visitors have left the island’s shores and returned to more mundane fare, and it is common for people to be beguiled into returning time and again.

Loch Buie Beach

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A celebrity isle Moving on swiftly, past James Macdonald’s description in 1811 of Mull as ‘Muille na m’Beann fuar’ (‘Mull of the cold chilly mountains’), the modern appeal of the island and that of the wider Hebrides, has been enhanced by frequent appearances in the media, especially on television. Mull has also had a full complement of celebrity endorsements – and not only in the twenty-first century. Curiosity for the intertwining of a rare nature with resourceful and resilient people was central to Samuel Johnson and James Boswell starting out on their exploration of the Hebrides in 1773. Boswell explained that they had been ‘impressed with a notion that we might there contemplate a system of life almost totally different from what we had been accustomed to see; and, to find simplicity and wildness, and all the circumstances of remote time or place so near to our native great island, was an object within the reach of reasonable curiosity’. Two and a half centuries later, the same fascination still draws visitors to the Hebrides. Here, relations between land, sea, people and weather are intimate and vital. This is perhaps most apparent when any of the islands are cut off from the mainland and one another for days thanks to ferocious and capricious winds, raging and swelling seas, racing tides and leaden mists. These can envelop and swallow a land mass totally, yet it is rare for them to persist through the course of a day. At any moment, each of the Hebrides can conjure exhilarating, radiant weather with turquoise seas, intense blue skies and extraordinary sunsets. Any or all of them can also fall victim to brooding skies and hostile cloud formations, dense with foreboding, that can suddenly storm in from the horizon to send lashing damp and cold to your core. The Hebrides are an entanglement of differing origins and constituent parts, some serene and harmonious, others seemingly chaotic, primitive and primordial, each island an experiment in a great natural laboratory. As one island is fashioned in one

Langamull Beach



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A spectral seascape The image opposite, seen from Mull’s Langamull beach, shows The Clansman ferry sailing from Coll and Tiree through a haar. Said usually to occur on Scotland’s east coast, Mull also experiences the haar’s spectral effects when conditions are right. These can make ships appear to be sailing in the clouds or suggest land to be floating. In this image, the latter is the case, with the mountains of Rum, one of the Small Isles to the north of Mull, apparently levitating. Haar is a sea fog that occurs in spring and summer when the air is starting to get warmer yet the sea remains relatively cold. The water cools the air just above the sea’s surface, which in turn chills the higher, warmer air until it can no longer retain moisture. This causes the warm air to condense, forming tiny particles of water, which create the fog. In the photo below, the phenomenon can also be seen as it rolls into Calgary Bay. The haar teaches us to be prepared. If you never expect Mull’s weather to be predictable then you will never be disappointed. In turn, the weather will never disappoint if you have a feel for wild, soulful or sensual experiences. When the going gets tough, get out there and be part of it!

way, its neighbour can be formed subtly, or very significantly, different. Each has a range of elements that work uniquely in synthesis to create individual character and personality. In this world it can faithfully be claimed that the Isle of Mull is like no other and yet the tale of its natural history has remained relatively untold, vague and disjointed to the layperson. It is therefore more than timely to bring the elements together to reveal a story that tells of a complex and, in many respects, world-class biodiversity that exists both because of and despite the attentions of people over the ages, and occupies a landscape forged over millions of years by extreme forces of ice, fire, wind and water.

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The evolving landscape Mull rose dramatically as a volcano from the sea between 60 and 55 million years ago. It was sculpted by a succession of eruptions of enormous magnitude and, subsequently, by the slow grinding power of vast glaciers, plus the tidal surges and weather systems that continue to shape and reshape it today. For centuries people too have left their mark, both in the appearance of the landscape and on the flora and fauna that the landscape attracts and hosts. In an epoch where populations are on the move, life is frenzied, unpredictable and risky, and the information superhighway flashes and surges relentlessly to probe new horizons, Mull delivers an uncommon experience that evokes an alternative approach. That is not to say that Mull is a living museum trapped in the past. It is not some kind of anachronistic Brigadoon, frozen in time – far from it. It is accommodating to the modern world and as effervescent as anywhere if you have the feel for it, but it is also resilient, constant and calm. It has a presence and enchantment that enchained the exile Dugald MacPhail and still binds its own people to it, bewitches visitors, and draws people back time and again. It has not always been so, as will be seen, yet today Mull can lay claim to being one of the ‘must-see’ destinations – a jewel of distinction in Scotland’s vast treasure of fascinating landscapes and experiences. And one of the reasons for the island’s

A saunter on the Stairway to Heaven John Muir, the Scottish-American defender of wild places and a habitual walker in wilderness landscapes, said of hiking: I don’t like either the word or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains – not hike! Do you know the origin of that word ‘saunter’? It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre’, ‘To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.

Descending Ben More



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ability to exercise this fascination is that, like the finest of jewels, it is fashioned with many facets, each brilliantly cut and shining alone, but all the more glorious when seen in combination in the perfect setting. Among these aspects, the natural landscape is the first to make its presence felt. For many people this is the most addictive of Mull’s enticements. It ranges from the towering, scree-scarred, stern (though usually benign) heights of the central Ben More massif leaning over Loch na Keal, to the still rugged and windswept but gentler, more colourful Ross of Mull to the south-west. At Gribun, Ardmeanach, Caliach, Carsaig and other places there are dramatic and forbidding rock outcrops, many hiding braes – steep hillsides – in whose slashing watercourses shelter tenacious, ancient and lichen-rich broadleaved woodlands, which are often stunted, gnarled and wind-pruned, and sometimes long-neglected coppice. Overlooking the vast openness of the Sound of Mull are rough fields. These are less grass than Bracken which, burnished by the autumn sun, dies a bronze colour, and has a recurring backdrop of dense, evergreen coniferous forest waiting to be cropped. In the far north and south, inlets and skerries guard secret places of silver sands and coarse boulders. Small islands abound. Ulva and Gometra are a naturalist’s paradise with few people and a disarming quietness. Even more attractive insular havens for nature, sitting like a scattering of pearls in the shimmering ocean, are Staffa with its fabled Fingal’s Cave, the distinctive Bac Mòr (The Dutchman’s Cap) and the Treshnish Isles, a riot of Bluebells and Puffins in springtime. Lunga, the largest of the Treshnish Isles, is a ‘bucket-list’ destination for anyone wanting to see Puffins at close range. The Isle of Iona, something of a honeypot for those looking for the sacred in landscape, is quite simply beautiful, seemingly timeless and apparently untouched. It soaks up the attentions of both religious and secular pilgrims, and come spring, those of birdwatchers in search of the eccentric, beguiling and not-always-elusive Corncrake. By comparison, the island of Inch Kenneth seems almost close enough to touch but is generally less accessible. It receives few visitors despite a fascinating history, both ancient and modern, to match its dramatic setting.

Bac Mòr

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Mull’s ‘magnets’ The landscape of Mull is, in the first instance, the product of its exceptional geology, which receives its own particular attention from professional and amateur ‘rock hounds’. Whilst parts of the surrounding landfalls, on Iona in particular, are among Britain’s most ancient and steadfast geology at around two billion years old, the main body of Mull is in comparison a brassy youngster born from the above-​ mentioned prodigious volcanic eruptions originating about 60–50 million years ago. So traumatic and deeply scarring was this beginning that it still defines the form and behaviour of the island today. The most obvious and dramatic sign of these extraordinary origins are in the bulky stepped tablelands of central and northern Mull, especially those looking north and west. More obscurely, but a modern indicator of just how special this geology is, alert observers might find neat boreholes (as if the product of super-sized woodworm) in many rocks around the island, which were created by the investigations of modern geologists eager to drill to the very core of what made Mull. Together, the geology and landscape provide the foundation for Mull’s claim to sit among the premier places to see wildlife in Europe. For many people, the pinnacle of its wildlife offer on land is probably that it has cumulatively the highest density of breeding Golden Eagles and White-tailed Eagles in Europe. The author and naturalist Jim Crumley inferred: ‘Nowhere in all Scotland embraces, emblazons, proclaims, promotes, exploits and generally brags about its eagles quite like the Isle of Mull.’ It has been dubbed (or did Mull proclaim itself?) ‘Eagle Island’. White-tailed Eagle, Loch na Keal



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Despite understandable mistrust of the huge and hungry White-tailed Eagles by some sheep farmers, the eagles tend to be held in great affection by the community. An alert and informed network of residents has done much to ensure that the White-tails in particular, once extinct in Britain, have been allowed to establish themselves on the island relatively free from the attentions of egg collectors and over-zealous photographers. The economy receives in excess of £5 million each year from eagle tourism, and there is a well-founded saying on Mull that ‘even when you can’t see an eagle they can assuredly see you’. Similarly, amidst a wave of indignation about their persecution elsewhere, and population decline in the UK, up to 40 pairs of Hen Harriers continue to thrive on the island, providing thrills and pleasure for the many people who simply want to bear witness to their elegant, sweeping, contouring flight in search of a vole supper. People whose wildlife favourites are more of the ‘fur and teeth’ variety will be very lucky to see any of the recently established but burgeoning Pine Marten population. More apparent might be the ubiquitous but misplaced American Mink, which are widely viewed with suspicion as an invasive species. Meanwhile, large numbers of wildlife photographers testify that Mull is one of the best places in Britain to see the doughty but vulnerable Otter. These thrive on Mull despite the pressures of modern development and speeding vehicles, which the Mull Otter Group has been established to try to ameliorate. Despite his mild rebuke of islanders for bragging Mother and two cubs on the lookout, Loch na Keal

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about the epithet ‘Eagle Island’, it was Crumley who bestowed upon Mull an alternative title: ‘Otter Island’. One of the idiosyncrasies of islands is that they often lack species that are relatively commonplace elsewhere, so visitors will search in vain for Badgers, Foxes, squirrels and Magpies, but an evening stroll across most parts of the island in October will often be rewarded with distant, or perhaps disturbingly close, bellows of the Red Deer stags at the rut. To witness this annual event, when the deer come down from the hills and the stags stalk each other for a few brief weeks, is not only a great privilege but an experience that truly allows the observer a window into something primeval. Although today deer roam freely in too great a number (with the tacit tolerance of some sporting estates), they are nevertheless acting out a visceral drama that nature devised thousands of years ago to ensure that the fittest and strongest survive and pass on their genes. Red Deer stag, Grasspoint



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A similar story can be told of the seas. When people load the car boot with their weekly shop of groceries at resorts such as Blackpool or Brighton, they would hardly expect the sea to explode with the exuberant leaping and surging of large dolphins, yet several times a year this is exactly what happens opposite the Co-op supermarket in Tobermory harbour. Further out the dolphins are joined by porpoises and whales. Midsummer sees the arrival of the second-largest fish on Earth: the Basking Shark is a colossus some eight metres in length. Its mouth is large enough to easily swallow a human, although it would have appalling consequences for the plankton-eating shark were it to do so! Although best seen from one of the boats offering wildlife trips, all of these marine animals can be observed clearly from land during suitable conditions. These are the A-list celebrities from Mull’s natural history, but by no means the only or even most important or special species in the eyes of many naturalists. The aim of the following chapters is to introduce the reader to the considerable breadth and depth of wildlife that one can expect to experience on and around Mull. The animals featured include birds, mammals, invertebrates, fish and reptiles whilst the plants include orchids, trees forming the internationally important Celtic Rainforest, and an exceptional number and diversity of lichen and fungi. The life forms range from land to sea, upland to shoreline, and join forces to tell the story of this very special place.

Back to the future This book is a celebration of Mull and can be selectively read as that alone. However, to emphasise a point, none of this exists today without what has gone before. Mull cannot be appreciated for what it has without understanding: why it is like it is; how natural an environment it really is; and what historical and present-day impacts have formed it and will continue to shape it. It should be born in mind, for example, that Mull’s natural history also forms a web of relationships to events in the rest of the world including changes to the climate and the environment. Too often the natural world is presented like exhibits at a zoo or through the prism of televised entertainment, with no context and no life beyond that which people allow. It is undeniable that ours is one of the most significant epochs in the world’s history. Change to the natural environment is occurring at an almost unprecedented rate, and – as elsewhere – human interaction with the environment is a key factor, perhaps the primary catalyst, to that change on Mull. People can determine what the future environment will be, in the knowledge that any environmental failure is a contributory threat to human existence. Today more than ever it is important to be sensitive to, and understand, ecosystems. That must

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include being able to recognise different habitats and the complex interrelationships of a host of wildly diverse organisms that inhabit them. The following chapters will therefore introduce some of Mull’s finest flora and fauna, while complementing the splendours by addressing some of its problems along the way. For those who recognise that this era is a defining point for the environment and biodiversity, it is hoped that the book will serve as an affirmation of the very best that nature can deliver.



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For those who are simply curious or in search of knowledge, the hope is that it will shine a light on why Mull’s natural history remains so diverse and fascinating. Finally, because humans are the biggest influence on all of this, the story is about the people of Mull who have ordered the island and shaped the land – hunting, fishing and cropping it – and today seek to make it fit for the future. Mull’s wildlife and its people have always been intertwined, and their future together is Mull’s future. Lunga, looking back towards the boat landing

Lunga – ‘a green jewel in a peacock sea’ The Treshnish Isles make up an archipelago of eight principal islands of which Lunga, with about 60 hectares, is the largest. They are situated between Coll and Mull, 3 km west of Mull, and their isolated feel today belies both their historical importance as fortified strongholds and their nineteenth-century farming community, the remains of whose houses can still be seen. It is possible to visit Lunga on day trips in the summer. Cumulatively, the Treshnish Isles have been adorned with conservation designations for their all-round geology, and flora and fauna. They are in part a Site of Special Scientific Interest and, prior to Brexit, a European Union-designated Special Area of Conservation, especially for nesting seabirds (including Puffins) and Grey Seals, and Special Protection Area for nesting Storm Petrel colonies. The name Lunga is derived from the Viking word Lungr-øy, meaning ‘Longship Island’. This may be because of its shape or possibly because of its sheltered moorings that would have been a blessing to the Viking boatmen as they moved around the west coast, perhaps on their way to pillage Iona.

Hexagonal basalt rocks, Staffa

TWO

The Land that Holds the Life ‘What happens to us is irrelevant to the world’s geology, but what happens to the world’s geology is not irrelevant to us.’ Hugh MacDiarmid, On A Raised Beach (1934)

Seeing the past in colour No two places on Earth have the same natural history. Many different influences play upon each. In the case of Mull, much of its uniqueness comes from its origins as a landform. Its wildness is intimately entwined with the transformation of the underlying structure of the island from its beginnings in deepest time to the present day. Every rock in every place tells its own tale and, cumulatively, each piece of grit, every stone or crag on the Mull archipelago contributes to a narrative of almost unimaginable age and drama. This really is too vibrant and impressive an adventure to let pass without acknowledgement, and too compelling a story to ignore. As luck would have it, all the clues to the plot are strewn with abandon round the islands, its themes carved everywhere into the landscape – ready to be discovered, pondered upon and rediscovered. To take a modest example, the curious are encouraged to make a short pilgrimage to St Columba’s Bay on Iona, to seek out a very literal portrayal of the vibrancy of the hard landscape. Our pilgrim route begins at the ferry slipway at Fionnphort. A few yards along the unobtrusive track lying immediately to the left of the slipway, coarse, rich-pink Ross of Mull granite harvests the sunlight to beautiful effect. Here, at close quarters, it can be appreciated for both its decorative and tactile qualities, and its age – around 400 million years old. After crossing to Iona, a road runs south towards a wild-flower meadow masquerading as the deliciously unkempt Iona golf course. Here, keeping the sea to the right, the walk eventually picks up a rough track that exits the golf course, and passes a pretty lochan called Loch Staoineag, which Dwelly’s Gaelic–English dictionary suggests could mean ‘Loch of Tin’, the ‘Loch of the Foolish Woman’ or the ‘Loch of the Juniper Berry’. You may choose which you prefer. This walk is worth undertaking because it crosses one of the oldest landscapes on Earth before reaching the historic bay where Christianity is said to have arrived in Scotland with the landing of St Columba in 563 ce. However, the real reward in

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this instance involves gradually dropping to a beautiful cove defended by skerries, where the beach is composed of a diverse palette of ancient, coloured pebbles, each with its own character and history.

A commitment to understanding Modern pilgrims often pick up two pebbles from the beach, throwing one back into the sea as a symbol of something in their life that they wish to leave behind, whilst keeping the other as a remembrance of a new commitment made. In the absence of more urgent resolutions, our pilgrim might dedicate a short time to reflection upon some of the rarely considered connections that sustain the natural world. Leonardo Da Vinci was given to similar deliberation, concluding that ‘we know more about the movement of the celestial bodies than about the soil underfoot’. Five hundred years later, this sentiment probably still holds true, and ought to spur us on to address our lack of acquaintance with what is, after all, the foundation of our home. In this spirit, the colours in the Iona pebbles can be displayed even more resplendently by splashing water over them. Taking time to admire them provides a good opportunity to contemplate the ways in which each is a work of nature, the product of complex chemical ingredients, physical reactions, and aeons of abrading and shaping. To understand more, however, requires a little interpretation. This is where some geology helps.

A fondness for rocks? The person often described as the founder of modern geology was (it goes almost without saying) a Scot, James Hutton. Born in 1726, he studied science at a young age and also looked after his family’s farms. Three hundred years ago the prevailing Western belief was that the Earth had been created only about 6,000 years before, a figure estimated from stories in the book of Genesis. Hutton thought that there must be more to geological phenomena and that they could be explained in terms Pebbles at St Columba’s Bay, Iona



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of observable processes. A colleague once paraphrased Hutton’s methodology as having ‘become very fond of studying the surface of the Earth’, such that he ‘was looking with anxious curiosity into every pit or ditch or bed of a river that fell in his way’. Hutton formulated the notion of a ‘rock cycle’, whereby continual erosion of land surfaces was countered by the formation of new land due to volcanic action and other processes whereby the Earth’s hot core brought rock and minerals up to the surface. This created new mountains and other landforms which, in turn, were eroded and washed as sediments into the sea, became compacted, and were again thrust upwards into new landforms by subterranean heat-generated processes. He calculated that this cycle must take many millions of years. There is a surfeit of evidence for this process on Mull but, following Hutton’s recommended practice, to gain insight we first have to become very fond of ‘looking with a curious eye’ at shapes in the land, eroded vistas or just about any rock formation.

Reading the landscape A stumbling block for many, unfortunately, is that the subject of geology is itself widely regarded as being dry and burdensome. Not only is it packaged with connotations of complex science obscured by inaccessible terminology, but the sheer scale and timespan of the subject is almost overwhelming. It is true that experts are palpably and without exception enthralled by the extraordinary geology that the Mull archipelago exhibits. There are few places that have a hatful of ‘-ites’ (rock and mineral forms) named after them. In addition to Mullite, there are Craignurite, Benmoreite, Tobermorite and more besides. According to Woolley and Jermy (1978), ‘To the geologist interested in igneous rocks and volcanoes, the island of Mull represents one of the classic areas of their science.’ However, it is wrong to assume that Mull’s geology is solely the preserve of dusty academics and obsessive amateurs. Anyone can get excited at the idea of sapphires and garnets appearing on the surface of a rock, even if they are actually neither of gem quality nor harvestable. This geology is definitely somewhat showy, upfront and accessible to all. Numerous excellent books, pamphlets and online resources already provide the chronology, detail and definition that interested parties might require to delve deeply into Mull’s past, so doing so again is not the main purpose here. Instead, the aim is to open a window sufficient to encourage a reasonable recognition of the distinctiveness and diversity of Mull’s geology, and its relationship with the island’s natural history, together with the influences that bear upon both, and what made them what they are today. In that respect the following is more about shining a light

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on some of the accessible physical features and processes that distinguish Mull, which provide a basis for the modern landscape and environment, and simultaneously afford enjoyment in their investigation and discovery. It is certainly worth investing a brief period to contemplate and explore this remarkable landscape – and to acknowledge its transformation over time. Perhaps one can think of Mull’s landscape rather as Mark Twain described the Mississippi River in Life on the Mississippi: ‘a wonderful book’ but not one ‘to be read once and thrown aside, for it has a new story to tell every day’.

The bedrock of life All indigenous flora that grow on Mull, and all fauna that depend (directly or indirectly) upon the flora, stem from the unique way the landscape has been transformed to encapsulate the nutrients, soils and water systems that are replicable nowhere else today. These are the foundations of the island’s exceptional natural history, and fossil remains bear witness to the evolutionary processes featuring this biodiversity. Ammonite at Carsaig



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Examples include traces of bivalves on places such as the shoreline between Torosay and Craignure, while more pronounced specimens are found at Carsaig. Here, sizeable ammonite impressions join those of belemnites (squid-like animals) and Gryphaea (bivalves whose fossils are commonly known as ‘devil’s toenails’). These are found in mudstones and thin limestones that formed in early Jurassic time on the floor of a tropical sea. The cast of an ammonite can be likened to a time capsule: to place your hand in one at Carsaig is to be transported back around 190 million years. Much younger are the fossils found in the Ardtun leaf beds. These are sedimentary rocks where freshwater pools once formed in a cool period between volcanic activity. The sedimentary layer is sandwiched between basalt strata that were molten lava flows around 58 million years ago. The fossils in these beds, which nowadays are protected from being dug out, include leaves and plant stems from exotics such as ginkgo, sequoia and Araucaria (a genus of pine tree whose best-known representative is the Monkey Puzzle), whilst among the ferns one species, Onoclea sensibilis, is extant but found nowhere near Mull, growing only in North America and eastern Asia. A wider assortment of flowering plants, coniferous trees and many deciduous trees, such as magnolia, hazel, plane trees and oaks have also been found, whilst other discoveries include snails, insects and fruits. The sum of these adds up to a site of international importance – the only location in Britain to contain such a diverse range of flora and fauna from that period. Of course, regardless of importance, not everyone is predisposed to be captivated by stories of fossils, basalts or sediments. Some people are attracted by the wild landscape alone, relishing the textures, colours, scale and theatre. It is inescapable though, that what they are intuitively responding to is actually the bedrock of life on the island. Geologists have always known this.

The objective view Mull, together with its surrounding islands, has been so generous in yielding up its ancient past that it had already become a mecca for geologists soon after James Hutton first presented his ‘rock cycle’ theory. John MacCulloch, the first geologist to be employed by the UK Government, undertook a survey of Mull around 1811, during which he was clear that his interest was to be notably objective and scientific. He was definitely not swayed by any spiritual or aesthetic distractions, and he utterly failed to be moved by any sense of emotion, beauty or delight in the landscape. He found that, for the artist, ‘the country is devoid of scenes on which his pencil can be exerted’. He described it as: Possessing but little attraction, either for the general traveller or the lover of natural beauty… its wet and stormy climate, its trackless surface, and

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boisterous shores, present a succession of the most discouraging obstacles… It is but rarely that any picturesque features are found along the shores, and in the interior of the country they never occur. This is a particularly uncharitable assessment of the island’s assets. Nevertheless, as a true professional, MacCulloch waxed enthusiastically about the ‘striking examples’ of geological features that had ‘recently been objects of attention and have thrown so much light on the science of geology’. In this vein, MacCulloch inadvertently provided the earliest record of a relationship between Mull’s geology and its flora, reporting on his discovery of the fossilised remains of a coniferous forest overrun by lava on the Ardmeanach Peninsula. Despite his curmudgeonly description of the island, he is remembered by the island’s largest fossil tree (12 m tall and embedded into the cliff face), which is known as MacCulloch’s Tree. This tree remains a popular destination for anyone intrepid enough to undertake a fairly rugged trek then climb down a rusty metal ladder. Unfortunately, however, the fossil itself has been substantially looted for souvenirs since Victorian times. Petrified tree, Quinish Peninsula



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More positively, a fossil of a tree dating back roughly 56 million years can be found just below the high-tide mark on the Quinish Peninsula (OS grid reference NM40875602): although less well-known and smaller, it is more accessible and more complete.

Starting to come together It is hard to imagine, especially in a gale-driven slew of horizontal rain, that Mull’s underlying geology started out in the hot and dry southern hemisphere – far from what was to become the rest of Britain. It was part of a northerly drift of several lands, including today’s north-western Europe, Greenland and North America, which were forming on the Earth’s surface. It was effectively one super-​continent evolving from immense volcanic activity that surged through faults in tectonic plates – land that continuously moved, stretched, separated, eroded and reformed, pretty much as Hutton had deduced. The northward-drifting land masses very slowly started to arrange themselves into a pattern that can be interpreted today. The land that is now Scotland had been closer to

Major fault lines, NW Scotland KEY GGF LEF WBF NF SCF LF ELF

Great Glen Fault Leannan Fault Walls Boundary Fault Nestings Fault Strathcocon Fault Laggan Fault Ericht-Laidon Fault

Isle of Mull

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North America than Europe, but as modern Europe and America drifted further apart Scotland remained close to and finally docked, rather than collided, with England around 425 million years ago. This was during a 100 million-year-long era known as the Caledonian Orogeny, which defined today’s mountain ranges of Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia. A notable legacy of this period is the Great Glen Fault, perhaps Scotland’s most recognisable and iconic geological entity. This immense and very visible fracture in the Earth’s crust cuts across Scotland from the north-east to the south-west (and beyond). At the time when the Great Glen Fault was being created, the Isle of Mull (as known today) would not have existed. But when Mull appeared much later, it did so with such power that it pushed off course the entire Great Glen Fault. The fault follows a straight line south-south-west from Inverness until it reaches Mull at Lochdon. From this point it diverts very distinctly and slices through the south-east of the island past Loch Buie. Its course follows the alignment of Loch Spelve, Loch Uisg and Loch Buie. This fault is still occasionally active and shifting, giving rise to the odd tremor around the village of Lochbuie. Although more ‘chinaclinking’ than ‘sabre-rattling’, it is nevertheless sufficient to serve as a reminder of the awesome pressure still being exerted on the Earth’s crust.

As old as time Despite the imputation that some kind of geological mugging had suddenly been perpetrated on the fault, Mull did not actually appear from nowhere overnight. Beneath its current surface is a succession of much older bedrock. Most is now only found in small outcrops, but it does break out in several places in different Ross of Mull: pink granite, with intrusions of grey diorite. Iona Abbey in the distance.

Ardmeanach Peninsula

forms, particularly along the coast. Moine rocks that may be a billion years old are scattered around Mull, mainly west of a fault line running from west-north-west around Bunessan in a direction east-south-east across the Ross of Mull. Travelling west from Bunessan, the Moine rocks are intruded by the distinctive pink Ross of Mull granite that helps to define the Ross as somehow more benign and less raw than much of the island. This granite is uniquely decorative and extremely hard, which is why it has been quarried and turns up so often in iconic buildings and monuments worldwide. To namecheck a few, they include the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens, Skerryvore Lighthouse, Blackfriars and Westminster Bridges, New York and Liverpool Docks, the memorial to Eric Liddell [of Chariots of Fire fame] in Weifeng, China – and Calgary Bay Pier. Moving further west again, some of the Ross of Mull granite has been carried by glaciers onto Iona as debris or ‘erratics’. However, given the islands’ proximity to each other, it is surprising to think how little of Iona has any visible geological relationship with Mull at all. To the east of Iona are former sedimentary rocks known collectively as the ‘Iona Group’. They are roughly a billion years old and relate to the Torridonian rocks found in the north-west Highlands. To the west are some of the world’s oldest rocks: rough, contorted Lewisian Gneisses. They are 2–3 billion years old, making Iona exceptionally ancient – almost as old as time itself.

Mull’s magnetic personality East of the Ross, the remainder of Mull is essentially a complex of older rocks overlain almost totally by molten lava that erupted from fissures caused by volcanic activity of the early Tertiary Period. As volcanic events occurred, cooled and re-emerged, layers of igneous rock created the dark basalt plateaus that are so distinctive of Mull, being particularly well delineated around Gribun, Beinn na-h-lolaire in Glen

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Wild Mull The Loch Bà Ring Dyke

When a volcano erupts it empties the magma chamber beneath it. This void causes the volcano to collapse in on itself, creating a sinkhole or crater – the caldera. Along the edge of the crater, fractures appear which allow varieties of intrusive molten rock to be pushed upwards into them. When they cool and harden, they form a characteristic round or oval rim to the caldera, known as a ‘ring dyke’. The Loch Bà Ring Dyke, probably formed during one of the last of the major volcanic events on Mull, is internationally significant, being the first to be recognised in 1924 and subsequently hailed as the most perfectly preserved and ‘finest ring dyke known to science’ (an accolade since surpassed, however). The intrusions are made up of a mixture of magma types but mainly felsite. It is oval shaped and enormous, roughly 5.8 km by 8.5 km in diameter, with a width in places of up to 300 m. Although a little imagination is required to take in the whole dyke’s scale and form, probably the best place to stand on it and experience it is on the ascent from Loch Bà along the eastern shoulder of Beinn a’Ghràig, just south of Knock (see photo below).

Seilisdeir and the Ardmeanach Peninsula. Other rocks and sediments intruded into the basalt, distinctive patterns of which can be traced on the exposed faces. The upper layers of lava contain more silica than the original basalts. These layers tend to be paler in colour and can be recognised as distinctive features around the tops of the higher mountains, including Ben More, which is the highest example of Tertiary basalt in Great Britain. Serious walkers with a desire to scale this peak might want to heed the warning that the volcanic origins of Ben More and the surrounding



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mountains tend to exert a magnetic influence that is said to throw compasses into confusion. If they want to impress other walkers they could even drop a name for this effect into the conversation: this is the ‘Bouguer Gravity Anomaly’. Amidst all this activity, three major volcanic epicentres have been associated with the Mull complex as it developed: the Glen More Centre, the Beinn Chàisgidle Centre and the Loch Bà Centre. The first two, though no less significant, tend to be treated as supporting actors, but the Loch Bà Centre, having arrived last and stolen much of the limelight, is renowned for probably holding Mull’s most scientifically important and record-breaking geological formation, the Loch Bà Ring Dyke.

Fingal’s Cave, Staffa

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Despite geologists swooning over the ring dyke, the public vote for ‘geological A-list celebrity status’ would go to the island of Staffa, particularly Fingal’s Cave which has been a visitor magnet for centuries. This vast cave and much of its surrounds are formed from thousands of pillars of hexagonally jointed basalt, said by some to resemble the pipes of a concert organ; the formation is so perfect that it is hard to imagine that it was naturally sculpted. Sir Walter Scott helped to fix Fingal’s Cave firmly at the pinnacle of the tourist trail when he visited in 1810 and described it as one of the most extraordinary places I ever beheld. It exceeded, in my mind, every description I had heard of it… composed entirely of basaltic pillars as high as the roof of a cathedral, and running deep into the rock, eternally swept by a deep and swelling sea and, paved as it were, with ruddy marble, [it] baffles all description. Scott was one of the tourist pioneers, soon to be followed by many more visitors. One drawn to the island was composer Felix Mendelssohn, who was sufficiently impressed by his visit one stormy day in August 1829 to begin writing his famous and hugely evocative Hebrides Overture the same night.

Anyone can be a ‘Mull’ geologist One does not need to be a geologist to observe geology. Some of the easier ways by which to recognise and physically engage with these early igneous events are through the thousands of sills and dykes that snake all over the surface of the island.

Dyke at Calgary from the old pier



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Mull dykes are usually formed from magma that was pushed vertically upwards into fractures cutting across pre-existing rock. Sills look similar but intruded between older layers of sedimentary rock and would originally have lain horizontally. When the magma has hardened it tends to form ribbon-like effects, rather as if a river had been constrained within its banks and frozen solid. Dykes and sills can be seen on a grand scale on the face of cliffs or quite literally beneath one’s feet; they measure from a centimetre or two to several metres wide. Calgary Bay is a good place to start looking for them. On the north side of the bay, a large ‘wall’ descends towards the pier. Close inspection reveals that the wall is a dyke made of solid rock. Looking south from the pier looking across the bay, the dyke can be seen on the far side, as if emerging from the sea and continuing up the slope opposite. When numbers of dykes are formed together they are known as a swarm. The Mull Dyke Swarm is both recognisable and sensational in terms of numbers, although what can be seen on the island is only one small part of its overall reach. The Cleveland Dyke that is associated with Mull’s Central Igneous Complex has been mapped over 430 km and is up to 30 m wide in places. It extends almost to Whitby in North Yorkshire; because of its durability, it has been extensively quarried along its course, particularly for roadstone and setts. Clearly, tracing the whole course of the dyke is an undertaking for professional geologists but developing a practice of looking at the Earth’s surface and discerning features such as the dykes, just as Hutton did, turns anyone into a geologist. Moreover, from here on, the clues get fresher and arguably even more legible.

Mull under the ice Following the intense lava flows, temperatures were still similar to a warm, subtropical climate, but even benign weather takes its toll on landscape. Weathering, erosion and adjustments caused by settling faults and weak rock types reduced the central volcano features, removed layers of lava and reshaped the glens. Later, temperatures gradually began to fall and the period known as the Ice Age began. In practice, the Ice Age was an era beginning around 2.6 million years ago during which temperatures fluctuated wildly, and vast glaciers came but also went with some regularity. Glaciers create enormous pressure upon land, but they also move. As a consequence there was a constant process whereby water at the base of the glacier froze around rocks and smaller debris, picking up and carrying the material, and abrading rock surfaces as it went. As the glaciers thawed, deposits of rock and gravel were dropped in accumulations known as moraines, from which water then flushed some of the material away.

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Wild Mull The Scarisdale P-forms: making a molehill out of a mountain

The name P-form stands for ‘plastically moulded form’. On the south side of Loch na Keal are found the best examples of P-forms in the whole of the UK. They are evidence that even the sea lochs were once moulded and scoured by glaciers. One has to be an enthusiast to get excited about them but, unassuming as they are, P-forms tell of mighty events. They appear as deep grooves or smooth depressions and channels in the rock, occurring in places where the bedrock has been gouged by a combination of meltwater experiencing a rapid change of pressure and/or glacial erosion. A good description of the Loch na Keal P-forms is provided by Gray (1981): ‘The main forms are curved and sinuous channels up to 20 m long, 3 m wide and 1.5 m deep, but bowls, and other forms are also present. Field measurement of the orientation of 142 channels shows that they are consistently orientated parallel to the direction of ice movement.’



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Clues to this shaping of the landscape are evident all over Mull. Travelling west from Lochdon through Glen More, the visitor reaches Coire Clachach just after the high point overlooking the ‘Three Lochs’ (p. 116). Here there is classic moraine consisting of rock debris under scores of hummocks. Glen More is a former V-shaped river valley that the ice has deepened and smoothed into a U-shape, a form that recurs in other glens such as Glen Forsa and Glen Cannel. The moraine continues down the glen, distinguished by erratic rocks strewn chaotically across the area. At Craig, Glen More reaches a low point on its journey west. Here there are ramps, smoothed by the heavy push of ice on their upstream side, but slightly more ragged on the downstream side where the glacier has broken the rock into debris and carried it away. These ramps are known as roches moutonnées or ‘sheepsbacks’. Perhaps most apparent of all are the scree slopes formed from frost-shattered rocks on mountaintops which collapsed downslope when the ice that supported them melted. However, the clues most treasured by geologists may be the ‘P-forms’ by Loch na Keal. These show a series of indented ‘snail trails’, the result of a relentlessly slow, grinding glacier in combination with the constant surge of pressurised meltwater carrying sand and gravel beneath the mass of ice.

Life after the ice In summary, what has happened up to this point is that bedrock has been laid down, different minerals released, and rock forms created, moulded and moved. This has provided the space for the watersheds and watercourses, the bare exposed mountainsides, the flat places where soils and gravels can accumulate and, everywhere, niches, nooks and crannies. In warmer periods when the melts occurred, plant and animal life would briefly return to occupy these sites, although brief in this sense means 10,000–30,000 years before the ice returned. The last of the glaciation events on Mull concluded only a little more than 10,000 years ago, not long before Mull was believed to have been first occupied by people, so the bulk of life on Mull can be described as very young by historic standards. Of course, the element that had to be put in place, and one which determines all life that has occurred since, is the soil in its various forms and sites. Soil classification is a library unto itself, so it would be invidious to attempt to discuss it in any comprehensive way here, but there are certain characteristics that arise from Mull’s geology and consequent topography that tell their own story. Land on Mull has been assessed as to its suitability for arable cropping, and the findings reveal quite a lot about the conditions under which not only farming,

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but also the natural flora and fauna, need to exist. Out of seven categories of land, beginning with ‘Class 1: Land capable of producing a very wide range of crops’, and finishing with ‘Class 7: Land of very limited agricultural value’, Mull was categorised, at best, as either being ‘Class 4: Land capable of producing a narrow range of crops’ or ‘Class 5: Land capable of use as improved grassland’. Sampling has also shown that 70% of this poor soil is shallower than 80 cm. That is not to say that there is no good depth of fertile soil anywhere, but there is not a lot of it. Machair, the sandy, low-lying grassy meadows of the shore, is one exception. However, much of the remaining soil is either sparsely clinging to rocky mountainous terrain or constitutes mire and peat.

The stabilising force of Machair, Ardalanish



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We need to remember, however, that biodiversity is not agriculture, and that many of Mull’s growing conditions are perfect for a range of species that might not have survived in a more domesticated or ‘improved’ environment. In truth, the fact that the land is not very accepting of improvement is one of its strengths and a reason why the island today can support a range of species that are scarce in other places given over to more intensive human development.

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Final pieces of the jigsaw In addition to the foregoing geological phases, there are four final governing factors that account for the nature of this special landscape and its relationship with the species diversity hosted by Mull and its surrounding archipelago. Three of them are closely linked to each other: geography, climate and the sea. Both the biodiversity and hard landscape of Mull are profoundly influenced by the island’s maritime position. Latitudinally Mull sits towards the cusp of polar and temperate zones whilst longitudinally, in common with the rest of the British Isles, it lies on a climatic frontier between moist oceanic air from the west and dry, continental air to the east. This means it sits in a turbulent storm belt that accounts for the frequently encountered weather pattern of ‘four seasons in one day’. Most markedly, Mull takes the brunt of the moody prevailing westerly winds that sweep in uninterrupted from Newfoundland and Labrador, whilst simultaneously benefiting from the warm North Atlantic Drift (or northern Gulf Stream), an ocean current that begins its journey in the Gulf of Mexico. The island can have long and sunny dry spells, but its tendency is to be mild, wet and windy. Along with a constant pounding from the sea, this means that the shape and composition of the land will always be tested and in a state of flux. However, whether the physical structure is resilient to this or not is not the issue here: it is what it is. The same, however, may not be said of the flora and fauna. Some species thrive in these somewhat precarious and turbulent conditions, but for others survival is a constant struggle. Change, for better or worse, is always only a slight shift in circumstances away. That is why the fourth actor to play a part in the physical infrastructure and character of the natural history is so influential. People have been part of Mull for 10,000 years, all the time casting a long shadow over the land and the other species that it supports. Stormy weather approaching Black Beach



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Iona Only a tantalising 1.4 km apart (a ten-minute ferry ride), the islands of Mull and Iona are geologically as different as apples and oranges. Eastern Iona is largely made up of rocks known as Torridonian sediments that are around one billion years old. In the island’s west are rocks formed over 2.5 billion years ago from igneous rocks, which are solidified magma, and sedimentary rocks deposited in freshwater or on seabeds. Over time these rocks have been significantly altered by heat and pressure, thereby appearing as bands of different minerals. Known collectively as Lewisian Gneiss, they make up one of the world’s oldest landscapes. However, there is also another rock for which Iona is famous: marble. A marble quarry is found in a gully to the south, on the Sound of Iona. This streaked white marble may have been quarried on and off since Medieval times, although only ever with limited commercial success. The last commercial venture closed for good in 1918; the remains of its abandoned machinery are still on site. Quarry product was loaded directly onto boats moored in the cove, meaning that there has never been road access. Now designated as a Scheduled Ancient Monument, the quarry is a little hard to find – but it is certainly worth the walk, perhaps when returning from St Columba’s Bay.

Kilmore Standing Stones, Dervaig

THREE

People and the Shaping of Mull ‘Since man came to his own upon the earth, he has exercised with little restraint the power of his new wisdom over all created things.’ James Ritchie, The Influence of Man on Animal Life in Scotland (1920)

The epic begins The ‘Natural History of Mull’ might be likened to a 60 million-year-long epic drama with a cast the size of a Hollywood blockbuster. Visually stunning throughout, it is monumental in scale with limitless plots and sub-plots – although long periods have been prone to meander and lack tension. However, within the last 10,000 years, the interaction of the different players has been galvanised by the arrival of a major new protagonist: humankind. To fully grasp what James Ritchie portrayed as ‘the heavy touch of Man’ upon the natural history of the island we must go back to the first presence of people on Mull and examine their evolving influence from that point onwards. With no written or spoken record for most of the time, this depends substantially upon informed guesswork and enlightened storytelling. Even so, our tale begins by reaching for an anecdote from far beyond the shores of Mull.

Leaving the Garden When humans first walked the Earth, it was the other species and natural elements that held sway. It was they who determined how we behaved, rather than vice versa. Our species’ survival depended upon being perfectly in tune with, and alert and flexible in response to, nature’s rhythms and vicissitudes. We probably lived as unobtrusively as possible whilst harvesting only what we needed from nature’s overflowing cornucopia. Fast forward to today, and our imagined relationship with nature is still coloured by an ingrained ideal of the ‘Garden of Eden’ – untarnished natural kingdoms that function independently of people, populated by self-willed species that are unchanging over time. There are places in the world that we still portray as icons of sublime ‘natural’ habitats.

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The Amazon rainforest had long been regarded as the embodiment of this. In 2017, however, a group of scientists and archaeologists published the findings of a 25-year research project that proved to be the moment when Eden’s roof caved in. Studies showed that people moved into the Amazon at least 10,000 years ago and, around 8000 bp (Before Present), they began an expansive process of cultivating, selectively breeding, improving and translocating foodplants. In short, humans were discovered to have been engineering the biomass and biodiversity of the ‘uncorrupted’ Amazon for thousands of years, on an almost unimaginably vast scale – and yet it passes the test as some of the finest that nature has to offer.

The loss of innocence At a comparable time, around 9,000–10,000 years ago, human visitors to Mull were just settling in. This was the early Mesolithic Period when the total population of what we now call Scotland may have been no more than a few hundred or a few thousand. It has been suggested that the first people in the Inner Hebrides may have comprised a single extended family group. Whatever the number, their footprints would have been ephemera on the shores of Mull, their presence a fleeting glint in the landscape. If the word ‘landscape’ had been in use, it would have meant the wild, uncultivated hinterland beyond the coast. Over time, however, people began to realise that they were acquiring a unique mastery of their environment and, little by little, assumed the authority to manipulate the world to their particular needs and desires. By Britain’s Anglo-Saxon period, people were sufficiently confident and self-aware to have language that described their ascendancy over nature. By this time the word ‘landscape’ was very much in use and it had a very clear meaning. ‘Land’ is etymologically rooted in the Germanic languages and describes both a place and the people living there. The suffix ‘scape’ derives from the Danish skabe and German schaffen, meaning ‘to shape’: landscapes were unequivocally places interfered with or shaped by people. Of course, we have continued to evolve since, to a point where we now regard ourselves as independent of and probably superior to other organisms. These days we frequently use ‘landscape’ to describe what we believe to be an Arcadian vision of the synthesis of verdant natural assets with perfectly sculpted human-engineered land. We have cast ourselves in the role of custodian and architect of the natural world – manipulating, taming and civilising it at will. It is now hard to think of anywhere in the world upon which humans have not left their imprint. There are no Edens.



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Accident or design? Nature has been modified by people in a multitude of contrasting and inventive ways, often deliberately, but also through the unconscious and unintended consequences of human development. The result is a fractured mosaic of adulterated habitats and biodiversity. In recent times admittedly, we have self-consciously tried to mitigate some of the disruption that we have caused. For example, new development is often subject to Environmental Impact Assessments, whilst places have been developed explicitly to benefit particular wildlife species, sometimes necessitating the exclusion of competing species. Nature reserves or Sites of Special Scientific Interest are examples of this. In other places, the make-up of the natural history has been left to happenstance. Most places are weighted towards the latter, and Mull is no exception. The island and its surrounds have possessed a range of protected territory in modern times, but overall the composition of its biodiversity is the product of millennia of haphazard interactions between people and place. In general, this has worked out pretty well for the biodiversity of the island and it is worth exploring further how that came about. The Mesolithic visitors offer a useful place to begin. Their largely nomadic lifestyle wrought minimal change to the natural history of Mull – but that, of course, is what people used to say about the first Amazonians.

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Wild Mull

The strandloopers It takes no great feat of imagination to scan the sea from the shore of Mull and picture a small group of people in canoes following the coast, quietly nearing a likely landing place that is deserted save for a few agitated seabirds or an odd seal on a skerry shuffling into the water as they draw near. The archaeologist Steven Mithen expressed his sense of intimacy with these people and their lives when he disclosed that ‘in the Hebrides I could not only study hunter-gatherers who hunted deer, otter and seals, but also watch those same animals in the wild today’. These enigmatic nomads of the sea might have appeared for perhaps a few months of the year then disappeared. Like wild geese, they came and went in a cycle governed by the seasons. They have sometimes been known as ‘strandloopers’, people who may have had seasonally permanent sites from which they sallied forth, but they predominantly travelled along the coastlines, subsisting mainly on birds, fish and an assortment of shellfish, such as oysters, limpets and mussels. The Mesolithic Period lasted roughly 3,500 years on Mull. It was characterised by the production of very small, multifunctional worked flints called microliths that could act as arrows or other tools when held, perhaps several together like teeth, in a wooden shaft. Bloodstone, also known as heliotrope, is a hard quartz that occurs mostly as opaque green jasper. Flint is scarce in the Hebrides and Bloodstone was an effective substitute.



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Archaeological excavations have revealed ‘factories’ at Kinloch on the island of Rum, where thousands of ‘flint-substitute’ bloodstone tools were made and traded as far back as 8600 bp; caves in Oban that held evidence of continuing use of such sites as transitory ‘processing plants’ for fish and shellfish; and shell middens on Oronsay which also contained some mammalian remains of Red Deer, pig, Grey Seal, Common Seal, unspecified cetacean, Otter, Pine Marten and Weasel. These animals would have been used for food, clothing, shelter, tools, containers and small boats. People took what they wanted, and wanted only what they needed. Mull must have been important within the strandloopers’ range. A site at Criet Dubh (near Dervaig), which revealed flint artefacts and carbon-hearth deposits, was dated to approximately 10000 bp making it one of the first Mesolithic sites in Scotland. Livingstone Cave on Ulva has shell middens which date back to 8500 bp, whilst inland sites such as Tenga in Glen Aros have also produced microliths.

A natural urge These first people would have scanned their world constantly, alert to the appearance of wildlife, hazelnuts and fruits, to rises and falls in the tides, and to changes to the weather and seasons. Just as we do. They were not so unlike us, and any aspiring naturalist on Mull might do worse than stand in their footprints and view the world through their eyes. This acquaintance with our inoffensive ancestors, even people so far removed from our modern lives, is a humbling reminder of our historical relationship with diverse species, and the place of people within nature. They are a people to be respected for their fortitude and indomitable spirit. This is why we should not judge them harshly for eventually deploying a trait – to adapt things to their needs – that has become the signature of our species: it was from the later Mesolithic Period that the first phases of landscape and species engineering have been detected. Dateable carbon deposits and pollen sampling provide clues to suggest unnatural processes at work. It is likely that these hunter-gatherers were burning woodland to create clearings to attract grazing deer, which they themselves may have ‘wilded’ on the island. Furthermore, although it seems to have been slight in its impact, clearance of hazel woodland in this way may also have inadvertently been the cause of valley-bottom waterlogging, which would have opened a niche to enable a different species of tree, Alder, to thrive. People had begun to modify Mull.

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The winds of change The onset of the Neolithic Period, around 5800 bp, marks the point when people began to change the face of Mull far more significantly. It is a time defined by the appearance of agriculture, domesticated crops and animals, and by associated cultural and behavioural changes. To begin with, hunter-gatherers and farmers probably lived side by side in many places although evidence from the Inner Hebrides shows that the transition to farming was quite swift (within a few generations, at most). Larger, settled communities, permanent shelters and field boundaries would have appeared in the most fertile areas, but residents would simultaneously have still enjoyed nature’s generous bounty. After all, St Kilda’s islanders were still harvesting seabirds and eggs from cliffs until 1930. Initially, the climate was more benign than it is today, with warmer and drier summers rather like modern-day south-west France. Despite Mull never having ranked as one of the most fertile and bountiful of places, in this climate it was certainly sufficiently productive for agriculture to become established. Then, about 4,000 years ago, colder, windier and wetter climatic systems abruptly arrived – more akin to what we experience today. These caused a natural decline in woodlands and an increase in blanket bogs but did not deflect people from the course on which they were set.



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As we have only a few clues as to how people lived and farmed on Mull, assessing their impact on the land involves occasionally filling in the blanks by drawing parallels with other places. Fortunately, scraps of tantalising evidence continue to emerge from the otherwise dark, mysterious history, thereby helping flesh out the local tale. In telling the story, we need to be wary of not painting every action by humans past as detrimental to other species. Were that the case Mull would not have acquired the enviable reputation that it has today.

Natural history’s ‘Dark Age’ There exists a reasonably detailed picture of the political and social development of the island from 4,000 years ago; through the Bronze and Iron Ages; the rise of the Irish/Scottish Gaelic kingdom of Dál Riada; and right up to the sixteenth century. It explains the appearance of the many cairns, standing stones, hill forts, duns, brocks and crannogs, remains of which are scattered across the landscape today. There is a fascinating narrative that melds conjecture and fact around the arrival of Columba and his establishment of Iona as the epicentre of Christian evangelism in Scotland, and the fraught periods of Viking incursion, Norse settlement and subjugation of the Hebrides to the Norwegian Crown. Many place names are derived from Old Norse: the village of Dervaig (or Dearbhaig) in north-west Mull, for example, means ‘good inlet’. Loch Cuin: the view Vikings may have seen as they rowed through the narrows

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After Norwegian rule there followed a complex series of conflicts, plots, treaties and alliances that led to Mull and the rest of the Hebrides being subject to disputed authorities for long periods. The clan system had come into being, the Lordship of the Isles reigned over the area before it became subject to the Crown of Scotland, and the Clan MacLean became de facto rulers of Mull. There are many resources that tell this history in much more detail than can be justified here, but there is very little that can directly colour our understanding of what was happening to Mull’s natural history. In that respect this is the island’s Dark Age, and we can shine relatively little light onto it.

Cultivation and husbandry In 2018, archaeologists discovered a burnt grain of hulled barley at a Bronze Age structure excavated on Staffa. It was radiocarbon dated to almost 4,000 years ago. It may or may not have been grown there, but people living on Staffa were part of a community dispersed around Mull whose whole existence was premised upon the cultivation of crops on any available fertile land. Pollen samples from a similar era record the presence of cereals and plants such as Lamb’s Tongue, which are associated with cultivated land. Bringing large tracts of Mull under the management regime of humans without doubt impacted the island’s natural order. The shakedown of the island’s biodiversity had begun, suiting some natural species but also discouraging others. In Glen Aros, around 3000 bp, there was a collapse in populations of hazel woodland coinciding with increases in heathland species and blanket bog, which almost certainly was due to muirburn – the practice of firing dense and shrubby natural growth to encourage more nutritious vegetation for grazing domestic animals. By the Iron Age livestock could have included cattle, sheep or goats, and perhaps pigs, while arable land would have supported barley and flax, the latter used for clothing. With the later addition of oats as a staple crop, a few fish and an odd bit of mutton, the diet and farming practice of the Hebridean was pretty much complete and remained unchanged for the next 3,500 years, until the arrival of potatoes.

Into the ‘modern’ world From this point our story jumps to around the seventeenth century. After this, interrogating a timeline of historical events would not prove the best way to describe the connection between people and Mull’s biodiversity. Instead we shall look at the causes and effects of particular ways of life perpetrated by, or upon, the ordinary people of the island. The activities of people are, of course, determined by a host of economic, social and political factors. However, it is possible to generalise to a



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great extent to demonstrate how the pivotal human episodes occurred – those that ultimately led to the most significant determinants of today’s biodiversity. The ingredients that have contributed most to the mix have been woodlands and forests, herbivores (deer, sheep and cattle), subsistence farming practices and, very notably, direct actions by people to control the presence and type of wild species, in the form of either introduction or suppression. The direct actions to control species are dealt with in Chapter 4 (p. 59). The remainder are examined here as discrete issues.

Slashing and burning Botanical studies suggest that Mull never had great forests prior to the pine plantations of the twentieth century. Soil core samples and pollen analysis indicate that woodland in general was not ubiquitous postglacial times, and that large woodland stands would have mainly been eliminated from the landscape by climate and people in the period from 4000 bp onwards. That is not to suggest that trees were not present, but they would grow rather in clusters than dense, expansive acreages, particularly in the north and on the Ross of Mull. The first tree species to be established after the Ice Age were Juniper, willows (such as Creeping Willow), Alder, and scrub of Hazel and birches (Silver and Downy Birch). These were followed by oaks (Sessile and Pedunculate Oak), Ash, Wych Elm, Aspen, Rowan and Holly in the warm dry period up to, and including, the Mesolithic. As the climate became less favourable these species tended to wax and wane, as well as being impacted by clearance and other human endeavours; nevertheless all remain today. Mixed woodland surrounding Port nan Ròn (Bay of the Seals), Ross of Mull

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It is important to remember that it is only very recently that forests and woodlands have been intrinsically valued as a home for wildlife, without any ulterior motive on the part of people. Before that they were a source of raw materials to assist human development, and as such came with ownership, rights of sale and exchange, and limitations upon who may or may not have permissions to benefit from them. As Mull emerged from the ‘Dark Ages’, historical record is vague as to the extent and ownership of its woodland. Transport was mainly by boat; in the Middle Ages, clan chiefs would often maintain a naval presence of boats (birlinns), therefore demanding a reliable supply of wood. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, some oak woodlands may have been exploited for leather tanning. Rather than systematic sacrifice, the combined impact was probably nearer that of a dripping tap that simply prevented expansion of the limited extent of woodland. By the late seventeenth century, Martin Martin, in A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland, emphasised what was to become a recurring mantra, that there was ‘no wood here except a few coppices on the coast’. In 1753, a specific threat came from a new ironworks on the nearby mainland at Bonawe. At least 8,000–10,000 ha of oakwood per annum were needed to supply the furnace and by 1772 Thomas Pennant was describing (in A Tour of Scotland) how the demand for charcoal was outstripping local supply and now being procured from the ‘poor woods of Mull’, probably around Torosay and Gruline. Wood had now been given a cash value Policy woods at Quinish



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that some landowners could not resist exploiting. Although not removed entirely, many oak were heavily coppiced, thereby ecologically compromising them to a large extent and retaining them artificially in an immature, structurally uniform state with limited expansion capability. To this day a proportion of the oakwoods, derived from old coppice stools, are of small stature.

The sublime to the ridiculous In 1771, Rev. Dr John Walker confirmed that, although some trees were surviving, ‘the island in general is extremely destitute of trees’. He described several tracts of coppice that might grow into useful woods ‘were they but defended against the browsing of the cattle’. Two years later, Samuel Johnson and James Boswell made their tour of Mull. Johnson thought the barrenness and lack of utility of the mountains and moors so apparent that ‘the first thought that occurs is to cover them with trees’. Boswell recounts how Johnson lost his famous oak walking stick and, convinced it had been stolen, exclaimed ‘It is not to be expected that any man in Mull who has got it will part with it. Consider, Sir, the value of such a piece of timber here!’ Although the woodland management regime lasted into the 1800s, the practice of coppicing rather than felling meant that Mull’s woodlands survived better than many. Somewhat perversely, this helps to account for Mull’s present-day treasury of some of the finest Celtic Rainforests (see Chapter 9). The 1800s, however, saw ownership changes to the island’s big estates. New owners meant new uses for the land and further change to the landscape’s appearance. The increasing value of sheep created a demand for ever greater expanses of grazing, whilst a developing fashion for hunting estates meant that deer became a greater priority than cattle. Deer and sheep are notoriously prone to nibbling resurgent succulent shoots of trees. By the mid-nineteenth century the only burgeoning stands were the fashionable ‘policy’ woodlands planted around houses on the big estates. These were developed for amenity and aesthetic value, and introduced ‘foreign’ species such as Beech, Sycamore and Douglas Fir. Still here, they offer very different high canopy and understorey habitats to any that Mull had known previously. Before the Second World War, and particularly afterwards, came arguably the biggest shock to the island’s landscape and natural history across ten millennia. Forests of conifer, far bigger in scale than any previous woodlands, were instigated by the Government in an attempt to secure resource self-sufficiency in the event of another national crisis. Many of these plantations were instated over indigenous broadleaved woodland, and tracts of pinewoods covered the remains of the abandoned townships and former arable fields.

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Controversy has always dogged the policy to clothe huge expanses of Mull in trees. Ironically, however, as the stands have matured sufficiently to be removed, there is now a demand to make reparations for decades of suppressing native woodlands. A popular view is for plantations to be replaced by indigenous broadleaved species on a scale that the island has possibly never naturally accommodated. Over time, this could ‘lock in’ changes to former arable, mire and heathland landscapes that were wrought by the plantations and remove species such as specialist lichens and fungi, Crossbill and Siskin. Would it also encourage plant and animal species that are currently limited or absent? Such changes could create a new biodiversity mix, with people once again the catalyst. We look forward to more interesting times for the relationship between Mull’s fragile biodiversity mix and people.

Farming arable in adversity Until the mid-twentieth century, a long-standing characteristic of Mull’s people was that they lived individually by exerting relatively little impact upon the environment. For sure, their animals roamed freely across much of the landscape, but methods such as deep ploughing, the planting of huge tracts of arable land with monocultures, and intensive application of chemicals and artificial fertilisers, played little or no role in their farming style. Different circumstances in another place may have had a different outcome. But here on Mull, without owning land and with relatively little investment in housing, equipment and stock, the majority of people lived very simply for many centuries. Cattle roaming at Ulva Ferry



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Tale of the loathsome pine After the Second World War, there was a huge push for Britain to sustain its own wood resources. Vast, uniform conifer plantations sprang up, imposing unprecedented change on the character of the landscape. In 2012, despite a period of large-scale felling, 10,500 hectares (roughly one-eighth of Mull) was still under a dense, light-depleting conifer canopy. Natural broadleaf woodland cover was 2,900 hectares. The impact is so profound that naturalist Mark Cocker borrowed a collective noun from another writer, William Condry, to describe it as a ‘loathsomeness’ of conifers. Loss of light in itself reduces biodiversity, but further impacts include conifers significantly increasing the transfer of acidifying pollutants from the air to the soil and surface waters; an adverse effect on the breeding ranges of Mull’s Golden Eagle; and the drainage and desiccation of peat bogs. However, plantations are not sterile. Certain invertebrates, bryophytes, lichen and fungi are actually closely associated with conifers, and it can be argued that these add to the richness of the island’s ecology. Furthermore, at the point when felling has occurred, or land is prepared and saplings are first planted, raptors such as Short-eared Owl benefit from voles that are attracted to the area. Although this changes as the trees mature, many raptors including White-tailed Eagle, and some smaller birds such as Goldcrest and Siskin, find a home among the mature trees. Love them or loath them, this is a prime example of people continuing to manipulate Mull’s ecology on a grand scale.

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By the sixteenth century, as demand for beef was developing and Highland cattle were being driven to English markets, a cash economy was emerging. This development meant that land values were rising, and landowners often limited tenants as to their choice of livestock. The higher an animal’s price, the more rent could be charged – so cattle, and later sheep, were farmed to be sold rather than eaten. People often suffered. Without choices or the means to invest in more efficient methods and diversification of income, life was always going to be a struggle. William Sacheverell, a sometime Member of Parliament who visited Mull in 1688, described the countryside as like a ‘wild desert… broken, rocky, boggy, barren and almost wholly “unarable”’. The physician and philosopher Thomas Garnett went further. Living conditions, he said, were far worse in 1798 than he had seen anywhere on the mainland. He described rough cottages with two rooms – one for the family and one for the animals – and crops grown without enclosures, forcing herdsmen to keep constant watch to stop cattle consuming them. People, he said, ‘suffered fatigue and distress – a wretched existence’.

The impact of poverty Such observations colour a recurring image of the island being both capable of producing good animals and being fertile in places, but not sufficiently so to meet the needs of the islanders. James MacDonald noted that: ‘Although fertile and fruitful in the beginning of the sixteenth century, Mull does not, in the nineteenth century, yield half the meal consumed by the inhabitants; it is indeed, difficult to conceive how they subsisted prior to the introduction of the potato plant.’ (Potatoes had been introduced by the Duke of Argyle around 1750, providing a reasonably dependable staple food.)

Thatched croft at Kilfinichen



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Lazy beds or feannagan Once an observer has got their eye in, they will become aware of mosaics of striped fields across the landscape. These can be open, sheep-grazed areas or sometimes Bracken-covered hillsides which look to have been deliberately planted in rows. These are the traces of the lazy beds in which barley and oats would have been grown. The beds were formed by soil being dug from ditches and thrown onto raised ridges which would be manured or fertilised with seaweed. It was a very efficient system that provided deep soil that could be exposed to, and warmed by, the sun, whilst providing drainage via the ditches. These formations can be very old: some beds along the south side of Loch na Keal hail from medieval times. A particular barley called ‘bere’ (pronounced ‘bear’) was grown on the beds. Bere is an example of a ‘landrace’, a variety of a domesticated species that has adapted to its local environment over time, in this case to acidic soil with a short growing season and long hours of daylight. James MacDonald described it as growing ‘equal to any that is seen in Scotland’. Bere may have been brought to Britain by Vikings in the eighth century or earlier, and is still used today in bread making and whisky distilling.

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Surprisingly, in 1799, Sarah Murray (writing as ‘Hon. Mrs Murray of Kensington’) claimed in A Companion and Useful Guide to the Beauties of Scotland to have found barley and oats growing beside Loch na Keal ‘as fine as any growing in the south of England’. The lazy beds (a traditional method of arable cultivation; see previous page) that Murray described remain by the loch today. Where they have not been inundated by Bracken, they tend to be grazed short by sheep, which renders them suitable for a great number of worm-hunting Oystercatchers and Curlew in winter. Although the rise in potatoes and cereals partly encouraged population growth from 8,500 in 1801 to 10,600 just 20 years later, this caliber of crops was not ubiquitous. For the general population, there was little respite from living on meagre resources. Moreover, the paucity did not only relate to food. People rarely burn peat on the island today, but it was once the main and cheapest fuel and the scars of its digging lie across the landscape. The spartan homes of Mull’s impoverished folk were famously known as ‘black’ houses, whose name may have come from the black smoke and tar that emanated from peat fires and clung to the interior. The poor rarely have as much environmental impact as the wealthy but there is now growing understanding of the conservation value of peat in terms of both carbon capture and the species that it harbours. Peat is almost impossible to replenish: a nine-metre deep peat bed at Tireragan took 9,000 years to form. However, more significant change was soon to have a far-reaching effect on the landscape – and one that people would leave as a legacy for today’s natural history.

Bracken… blight… Bracken By the late 1700s cattle were no longer as valuable as sheep. Vast flocks of the latter were brought to Mull, taking over the high ground that had been grazed quite differently by the cattle. Dwindling numbers of (now less important) cattle were now grazed in boggy, poor-quality lowlands and a spiral of economic decline meant that people were often struggling on marginal land. Many did have employment for a period on the seaward margins where kelp-burning produced ash rich in potash and soda (substances sought after by the glass and soap industries). This industry was very profitable for a while, but the riches went to landowners while the workers endured low wages. When the kelp market was extinguished – by competition from abroad, after the Napoleonic Wars – little had been reinvested into community survival. Although some arable land was maintained, mainly along the coast, much was abandoned. This land had been fertilised for generations so became most attractive to Bracken. The fossil record shows that Bracken has always been present in our modern temperate climate, but for most of the time it formed part of the herb layer



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of deciduous woodlands. As woodland was cleared, Bracken emerged onto lower mountain slopes in particular. Here trampling by cattle had previously kept it in check, but now sheep left the plant to proliferate. As the nineteenth century progressed, many large landowners saw additional profit in turning estates over to meeting a fashion for hunting. The deer population increased as numbers of people declined. The combination of a changing economy, loss of land and minimal opportunity for self-sufficiency was a perfect storm that reached its climax in 1846. A famine hit the island when potato blight destroyed crops and a trickle of people leaving the island turned into a flood. Homes and land were abandoned, and people were forced to make new lives – often in another country. Since the famine, Bracken’s march across Mull has been relentless. With it has come the choking of many plant species, the loss of invertebrates and poorer food sources for a multitude of animals. At the same time, woods and pastures have changed in character significantly with the evolution of new farming and deer management methods. Arable farming was still practised into the mid- to late twentieth century, and some islanders still recall picking potatoes and raising hay stooks. Today, however, other than a little market gardening, there is no obvious arable farming. Even the hill

Tireragan, clearly showing the effects of excluding sheep and deer

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farming that survives is described by many farmers as an industry with little future. What that future will be is very uncertain but it is possible that a new era could emerge from the centuries of hardship, subsistence and subsidy farming, which could well be premised upon paying Mull’s land managers to nurture the wildlife that inhabits their land. Precedent for this comes from an interesting case study sitting right in the heart of one of the worst affected areas of abandonment. At Knockvologan on the Ross of Mull a 625 ha farm called Tireragan was purchased privately in 1993 for landscape restoration. Over 100 people had lived there in the early nineteenth century, but it had been uninhabited since 1853. Bracken was growing expansively, whilst sheep and deer grazing had compromised the viability of woodlands and herb layer. Sheep and deer were immediately excluded from the land, and it was left to heal. The effect today is startling. The woodland is dense, the heather as healthy as anywhere on the island, and there is even room for a few of the deer that have made it back to play a proper ecological role. The outcome is an environment that is scarce anywhere today, with an intrinsic value that any community should treasure.

Black cattle and white sheep Blame for the degradation of Scottish uplands has often been laid on those farming sheep. Around 1847, after a period of population decline and abandonment of much of the land to sheep, Mull bard Angus MacMhuirich wrote: ‘The land of our loves lies under Bracken and heather, every plain and every field is untilled, and soon there will be none in the Mull of the Trees but Lowlanders and their white sheep.’ However, as implied earlier, the impact of sheep has to be judged with that of the other main icon of Mull’s farming past, the black cattle. In combination with deer, these two herbivores have had a significant role in creating the island’s current environment. It is not possible to reset history and consider Mull’s biodiversity without these animals, but there is an interesting presumption that its ecology would be even better without these species. That may or may not be true, but it would certainly be a very different environment from the one appreciated by so many. From Neolithic times, cattle had been the primary stock animal of the Hebrides. Over time the islands developed a distinctive breed, the Kyloe, which became Mull’s primary source of wealth. Martin Martin was among many who praised them, writing that Mull’s small ‘black cattle are low in size, but their flesh is very delicious and fine’.



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Mull’s Kyloe cattle Kyloes – the original small, shaggy, black cattle of Mull, and not to be confused with today’s Highland cattle (below) – may have influenced the biodiversity of Mull as much as any species after humans. Their name comes from ‘kyles’, narrow straits of water across which the cattle were swum to reach market. Though the original breed is lost, they may have survived in the Hebrides into the late nineteenth century due to farmers being reluctant to cross-breed or substitute an animal ‘custom-made’ for the islands. Descended from the Neolithic Celtic Shorthorn cattle, Kyloes were described by Bishop Leslie in 1578 as ‘not tame, like wild harts [deer] which, through certain wildness of nature, flee the company or sight of men’. A note in The New Sporting Magazine of 1841 suggests a close relationship with the renowned ‘wild’ cattle of Chillingham Park, though this is not proven. James MacDonald summed up their fine attributes as follows: Heavy cattle cannot seek their food in bogs and marshes, leap over ravines, rivers, and ditches, or scramble through rocks, and in the faces of cliffs and precipices, like the present breed which is almost as active and nimble as a Chamois goat; nor can the Hebridean tenant afford to breed any stock which is not proof against the inclemency of rains and storms all the year round. It is infinitely safer for him to rear too small, than too large a breed of cattle; and to improve his indigenous, hardy, excellent species, than to import from other districts such breeds as may be indeed profitable for their circumstances and climate, but which would probably perish in the Hebrides, without more attention being paid to them than, in his situation, he can conveniently afford. (MacDonald, J. 1811, A General View of the Agriculture of the Hebrides or Western Isles of Scotland) MacDonald described the huge droves of Kyloes to southern markets as travelling ‘with astonishing vigour, and sometimes seen in the south of England, a few days after a journey of 700 or 800 miles, fully fatter than when they left home’.

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By the end of the eighteenth century Mull was estimated to hold around 8,000 head of Kyloes, of which about 1,500–1,800 per year would be exported to the markets of England, in the company of great droves of cattle from all around the Highlands and Islands. Sheep were less abundant historically, and kept less for trade than used domestically for their wool and meat. They came more into the spotlight when, after the eighteenth century, wool grew considerably in economic significance. Several important factors distinguish cattle and sheep from one other in terms of environmental impact. The two that are of most interest here are that they are inclined to graze vegetation differently, and that they are self-evidently different in size and weight. Thus, when cattle were the predominant species, they ate mostly grass and left it longer than sheep. They remained outside throughout the year, but people tended to practice a system of transhumance, keeping them in the lowlands in winter before taking them to higher land in spring, when herdsmen would live close to them in montane shielings. By this means, herbage would be afforded a rest from grazing. Being weighty, cattle would break up the ground with their hooves as they moved around, which made the soil structure more receptive to plant seeds. Cattle also trampled a lot of Bracken, preventing it from becoming as invasive as it has since shown itself to be. The sandy beach at Port na Ba was one of the sites where cattle from Coll and Tiree were landed on Mull. The Kyloe cattle were swum ashore from boats before being driven south, stopping at drovers’ inns, including one that can still be seen at Croig. The drovers headed for cattle markets on Mull or on the mainland (via Fishnish or Grasspoint). Remnants of the Salen cattle market can still be found today amidst the pine plantations in Glen Bellart.



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Sheep, on the other hand, graze the vegetation lower and are more catholic in their tastes, being particularly blamed for eating new growth of indigenous broadleaved trees. However, they ignore Bracken, enabling it to flourish unconstrained. Furthermore, their feet are small: instead of breaking up the soil, sheep tend to compact it, making it less accessible to a range of plants. As a result, when the economic focus of farming switched from primarily cattle to sheep, substantial changes to the landscape became apparent. In particular, upland heath has been altered. The difficulty is that leaving land ungrazed is also unnatural. Grazing by both species has been shown to be important for maintaining a range of moorland habitats, but the balance of grazing can have subtle impacts, particularly for birds. Meadow Pipits are not only a species that has suffered a major decline in the UK in recent years, but they are also one of the mainstays of Mull’s ecology. Studies have found that land either stocked with sheep alone (at high or low density) or not stocked at all holds fewer pipit territories. Mixed grazing at Treshnish Farm benefits the biodiversity, providing food for nesting Meadow Pipits

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This would correspond with the intuitive response of most people to a monoculture of sheep, but not to the impact of their absence. Furthermore, it has been found that intensive grazing by cattle alone will also reduce breeding of pipits. However, mixed sheep and cattle grazing at low intensity has been shown to increase pipit breeding success. It is now believed that a herbivore mix generates greater heterogeneity in vegetation structure, which increases prey availability, resulting in a greater abundance of birds. Though the results may not be transferable to all species, it seems reasonable to assume that at various times in Mull’s history there has been sufficient mixing of grazing animals, including deer, for a variety of habitats to have benefited from traditional grazing regimes at different times, thereby imparting a healthy legacy for Mull’s wildlife. Problems seem to arise when the balance might have shifted too far towards sheep as the dominant herbivore, though in recent times their numbers on Mull have fallen by 35–60%. Sheep are not as numerous as perhaps people imagine. Is it possible that Mull has somehow achieved a kind of benign equilibrium between human activities and natural processes? Sheep are important herbivores in the ecology of Mull



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A walk through time

On the Isle of Ulva, a visitor can live the Mull people’s story. A day here is like a walk through time. From Livingstone Cave, you can gaze on the same sea view as huntergatherers did 8,500 years ago. Not far away are standing stones from 3500 BP whilst Ulva and Gometra both have sites of duns. Viking kings ruled the island before the clan system gave ownership to Clan MacGuaire, also called MacQuarrie. In 1722 Ulva islanders appeared in Inveraray to answer a charge of rendering a stranded whale to get oil without the laird’s permission. Ordinary people were never wealthy. However, in 1818, the artist William Daniell references a new owner, Sir Reginald Macdonald (Lord of Staffa, Ulva, and Inchkenneth). Daniell’s illustration (above) depicts Loch na Keal and Ben More from above Ulva House, showing the hay harvest during Macdonald’s time. He was known for carrying out agricultural improvements, and Daniell reports that ‘the blooming appearance of this place forms a delightful contrast with the bleak aspect of the mountains within view’. The presence of deer and sheep mean that there is little ancient woodland, but policy woodland thrived from around this time. Remains of lazy beds can be seen, and good pasturage for black cattle and sheep was maintained, whilst kelp burning also provided employment. In 1828 the church was built. Unfortunately, the brief good fortune of the 800 or so islanders came to an end in 1835 when Ulva was sold to Francis William Clark. First, the kelp industry failed, then the potato famine struck. Clark introduced more sheep and shipped people off to the New World, burning their houses behind them and taking their livestock as ‘payment’ for their forced passage. He was among Scotland’s most notorious landlords, a neighbour reportedly shouting at him: ‘Francis William Clark, there’s a smell of your name all over Scotland.’ In 1841, the people living on Ulva and Gometra numbered 859, gathered in 16 townships whose ruins can still be seen. By 1848 the population was 150. The hand-tomouth life for many that remained is depicted for visitors in Sheila’s Cottage, to be found on the shore by the ferry.

Red Deer stag, Glen More

FOUR

Invasions, Extinctions and Mull’s Own ‘Gene Genie’ ‘Within itself a fauna is in a constant state of uneasy restlessness, an assemblage of creatures which in its parts ebbs and flows as one local influence or another plays upon it.’ James Ritchie, The Influence of Man on Animal Life in Scotland (1920)

The ebb and flow of life Wild Brown Bears are protected in Austria. In 2006 an Austrian bear quietly wandered over the border into Germany. Euphoria among conservationists, eager to welcome the first wild bear in Germany since 1835, was tempered by Bavaria’s Environment Minister announcing that hunters were free to shoot it. He described it as ‘out of control’ (i.e. wild). The bear, possibly perceiving that it might be making a serious error of judgement, hastily popped back over the border. Brown Bears were once native to Scotland. It is claimed that the Romans, although they did not manage to occupy Scotland, did good business with the locals by importing Caledonian bears to Rome to fight. Writing in 80 CE, the poet Martial told in graphic detail how a ‘Caledonian bear’ killed a criminal during an event marking the inauguration of Rome’s Colosseum. At what point Scottish bears died out is not recorded. It is certain that humans played a part in their demise, though there appears to be no great appetite for us to make amends by returning them to Scotland.

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There is currently a tide of opinion in conservationist circles that species eradicated by humans in a country should be classed as ‘native’ in their previous domain and afforded the chance to return. There are also differing views as to what is considered ‘natural’ and what is not, what constitutes an appropriate species within an ecosystem and what does not sit comfortably with either other species or human development. The reality is that environments and species change. At its extreme, comparison of today’s ecosystems with the flora and fauna of the Jurassic Period displays vast differences. Throughout time species become extinct and others arrive where they have never lived before, with many ‘alien’ species living in apparent harmony within their new environment. It is also undeniable that some introduced species do have the capacity to cause significant harm to the delicate equilibrium of a pre-existing ecosystem. Unfortunately, it can be hard to tell in advance into which camp a species might fall. The presence of Japanese Knotweed and rhododendron Rhododendron ponticum are examples currently being played out on Mull. Japanese Knotweed



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Degrees of ‘naturalness’ The implication is that there are ‘shades of nativeness’ and ‘degrees of what is natural’. Those are not values imposed by wildlife. ‘Nature’ and ‘biodiversity’ are no more than a range of species variously coexisting or occupying a particular habitat. It is people that require values to enable us to quantify and describe our own relationship with, and impact upon, the world around us. Thus, some people argue that we should not ‘manage’ wildlife at all, whilst others might argue that all species, or particular selected ones, should be conserved at all costs, often on wildlife reserves or in protected zones. Some believe that the loss of species is the necessary price of human development. All this to a backdrop of our accelerating use of land and pressure on nature, activities undertaken solely in the interests of our own species. It is easy to understand why eradication, translocation and reintroduction of species are stalked by controversy, and why the values that we humans impose on the environment are constantly being reset in accordance with changes in our knowledge and our interpretation of it. For the most part, we want nature to conform to society’s shifting priorities and moral compass, and have become powerful enough to manipulate ecosystems accordingly. Mull has seen many such scenarios played out. Its natural history is a product of multiple interventions, changes to species having taken effect both in modern times and over hundreds of years. So fundamental have these been to the island’s prevailing natural history, and so pertinently do they inform decisions to be taken today and in the future, that it is an issue worthy of particular examination. Historical sources enable us to delve deep into a thought-provoking story of Mull’s ‘wild’ biodiversity to provide insights into the ebb and flow of species, which reveals very little to be beyond the agency of humans. Most changes have been a consequence of human intervention in one form or another, and ignored, supported or disputed, depending to a large extent upon the cultural or commercial motives of the time.

Comings and goings The reintroduction of, and accompanying publicity about, the White-tailed Eagles that have bred on Mull since 1985, has tended to overshadow the arrival of other birds in the last 50 years or so. Goldfinches are now common, due largely to the trend for garden bird feeders providing an artificial food supply. As recently as 1983, Reed et al. announced that they were ‘yet to be reported’ on Mull.

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Crossbills arrived on Mull because people planted vast Sitka Spruce, Lodgepole Pine and European Larch forests that are to their liking. It was a case of ‘build it and they will come’ – so they came. They became a resident breeding species, although numbers fluctuate for they tend to be nomadic and ‘irrupt’ in different places according to the availability of food. The breeding population in Scotland can vary between 5,000 and 50,000 pairs or more, and winter irruptions of continental birds in Scotland can mean that more birds may stay and nest. There are also two other crossbill species in Scotland. The Parrot Crossbill is an extremely rare breeding species, mainly in the Grantown/Abernethy area, while the Scottish Crossbill is less scarce (although, even so, probably less than 5,000 breeding pairs) and is apparently restricted to the Scottish Highlands. Fish aside, the latter is the only endemic vertebrate species in the UK – a bird found nowhere else in the world! Genetically there is little difference between the three species and the few visual differences (namely overall size plus bill size and structure) are both very minor and hard to spot. This means that the only sure way to identify them is from a sonogram of their call. The Scottish Crossbill naturally has a distinctive Scottish ‘accent’, and differences in call are thought enough to ensure the birds do not interbreed, despite living in proximity to each other. So why is this of interest in a Mull context? The answer lies in the difficulty of telling these species apart, and the fact that since 2012, the Scottish Birds Records Committee (SBRC) has been reviewing records of Scottish Crossbills. There is a possibility that these rare birds, which are a species threatened by climate change, may be spreading south and west beyond their known range. Indeed, the significance of a ringed Scottish bird which was astonishingly trapped in France in February 2021 is still to be determined. Accordingly, the SBRC is particularly anxious to hear of any possible identifications of them on Mull. However, audio recordings of that Scottish accent will be required…

Male Crossbill, Fishnish



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Also formerly absent, Siskin and Crossbill are now plentiful, having arrived after the afforestation of much of the island with commercial coniferous plantations. The latter are under-reported; time spent walking the pine forest tracks looking at the tops of the trees will often be rewarded by sightings of roving groups of these wonderful birds. In contrast, some bird species are no longer seen on the island; for some absences there are distinct causal relationships with changing land use practices. The Chough, a bird that took advantage of and even developed a dependency upon human activity, has declined as humans decided to live differently. In 1852, this handsome red-billed, red-legged corvid nested on Iona, where there was even a pair in the abbey tower. They were also resident on Mull in the nineteenth century but were believed to be gone from both islands by 1900. The Chough provides an example of just how responsive some species can be to alterations in land use brought on by social, economic or technological change. For this bird to use its bill to dig for subterranean invertebrates requires particular conditions, notably short maritime cliff grassland. The species’ decline likely resulted in large measure not from an intensification of farming but from its reduction, particularly from the extensive abandonment of the centuries-long practice of ‘in-bye’ farming. In-bye is improved land, usually close to the croft or farmhouse, specifically used for intensive arable and grassland production, and therefore distinct from hill and rough grazing. Significant abandonment of the practice allowed the growth of taller, denser swards of grass and Bracken – vegetation in which Choughs are unable to feed. A pair tried nesting at Scoor in the 1990s, but the occasional subsequent sightings from Mull are almost certainly ‘tourists’ from nearby Colonsay, where they still cling on. Another eradication due to changing land use is that of Black Grouse. In the mid-nineteenth century Henry Graham described them as common, outnumbering Red Grouse ten to one in south-west Mull. They were even known to visit the Treshnish Isles from haunts in the north-west of the island. Later, however, Harvie-Brown and Buckley (1892) reported that Black Grouse were ‘decidedly on the decrease’, despite being regularly seen arriving from the mainland across the Sound of Mull. In 1920, Seton Gordon described, one April, watching male Blackcock ‘engaged in their favourite pursuit of fighting’ on their lek (display ground) above ‘a remote sea loch’ (possibly Loch Buie). Black Grouse are particularly susceptible to habitat changes. The loss of in-bye, reduction of heather muir and increased drainage perhaps signalled the bird’s undoing, and the eventual replacement of birch woodlands by mature coniferous forests would have completed the perfect storm that swept them away. The last record as a breeding species was in the 1980s.

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A warm welcome! Birds such as the Red Kite, Grey Partridge, Long-tailed Duck, Bean Goose and Pink-footed Goose and others have all come and gone, for varying reasons, although none has done so as quickly and comprehensively as a Roller that reached the island in 1888. On hearing of its arrival, The Maclaine of Lochbuie shot it and had it stuffed! This was the fate of many species in the Victorian era when human curiosity, fashion and ritualised hunter-gathering far outweighed any thoughts of conservation. It has to be said that the Roller that visited briefly in 2011 was met with a warmer welcome, though a softer, more considerate attitude towards individual animals in our own time should not make us complacent about any of the species that currently abound. Harvie-Brown tells us that Marsh Tits ‘swarmed’ in the glens of Mull prior to the severe winter of 1878–9, and climatic conditions rather than anthropogenic factors have probably accounted for the loss or decline of other species as well. However, a ‘not guilty’ verdict for people in some historical instances should not deflect from this prescient warning from Mull’s history of today’s gathering storm. Harvie-Brown and other early wildlife commentators were unaware that humankind is the only species capable of manipulating Earth’s climate and weather patterns and, despite having the benefit of hindsight, we continue to do so. Climate change means that human influence upon species on Mull is now happening more insidiously and more remotely than previously, but with no less impact. For example, migratory landbirds may already be nesting on Mull at a different time from the usual peak availability of their insect food sources. Decoupling? Insects searching out the last of the nectar.



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This effect, known as ‘decoupling’, could lead to reduced breeding success and consequent population decline year on year. Seabirds are similarly finding that warmer seas are altering fish migration patterns, again limiting their ability to feed their young. It also goes far beyond birds. The relationship between bees and plants, for example, is crucial to the biodiversity of Mull. Both are adjusted to specific weather cues – such as frosts, snow cover or ground and air temperature – to inform them when spring has sprung. As weather patterns and temperatures shift beyond the norm, plants and bees may already be becoming slowly but surely out of sync, resulting in bees emerging too late to provide pollination benefit. A lesson to be drawn is that observation and records are important to identify change, as not all shifts and effects on species are immediately obvious, even with hindsight.

How to make a deer… Mull has had generous experience of human interventions when it comes to its deer population. Their numbers and varieties have been controlled, historically and currently, in multiple ways. They have been genetically modified and hunted, while one species has been eradicated and two translocated: all in all, a rich contribution to the continual agitation of the island’s biodiversity. Prior to 1845, when some arable farming, cattle husbandry and a focus on sheep were priorities, Red Deer would not have been particularly welcomed by most of the population. The Old Statistical Account of 1795 talked of ‘mountains now being flocked with sheep (which) may in the course of a few years, banish (the deer) from the Isle of Mull’. By the time of the New Statistical Account of 1845, Red Deer were ‘not so plentiful’. However, the year 1845 corresponds with the era of the ‘clearances’ when people were leaving the land, and the account goes on to say that, despite starting from a low level, deer numbers were increasing at that time. This was due to the growing popularity of sporting estates and attention being paid to the management of both number and quality of the animals for hunting. By the latter half of the nineteenth century, Colonel Greenhill Gardyne of Glenforsa had, at various times, felt the need to modify the island’s Red Deer strain by introducing fresh blood from elsewhere: Windsor Park, Stoke Park and others in England, Powerscourt in Ireland, and Scotland’s Glenartney, Blackmount and Invergarry forests. This was quite a confusion of genes to introduce: what this meant in terms of changes in Red Deer biology is not recorded.

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Over millennia, the body size of Red Deer in Scotland has declined significantly in response to human expansion of land use for its own food supply. It could be assumed that interbreeding on Mull was undertaken in the belief that it would increase the size of the deer to that of more cosseted strains, though it may also have been done to improve fertility or increase the size of trophy antlers. Whatever the reason, none of these characteristics is very obviously displayed by the modern Mull deer. We may struggle to see what was gained by a radical but possibly badly informed experiment and without more evidence we have no way of knowing what impact, if any, it had.

Red Deer stag, Grasspoint road



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… and more deer James Ritchie remarked that Roe Deer ‘which are natives of few of the Scottish islands, had been established on Mull’, although he provided no dates. However, MacLean (1923) mentions them being introduced to Scotland from Denmark by James VI in 1589, and in 1772 Thomas Pennant wrote of Roe Deer being found on Mull in sufficient numbers that their skin and horns were ‘articles of commerce’. He noted that the deer was fond of Roebuck-berry (also known as Stone Bramble) which is not abundant on Mull today (albeit still widespread). In 1845 Roe Deer were still said to be common ‘in the parishes of Kilfinichen, Kilvicheon and Kilninian’, reinforced by introductions in 1865 on his Glenforsa estate by Greenhill Gardyne, Mull’s nineteenth-century ‘Gene Genie’. However, by 1892 Harvie-Brown reported that Roe Deer were no longer on the island, though no reason was given for this sudden local extinction. Greenhill Gardyne appears to have had an insatiable appetite for bringing sporting animals to the island. Having tinkered with the Red Deer gene pool and installed Roe Deer, he introduced other species including hares (pp. 69–71), which can be seen today, and Fallow Deer, which thrived and are today commonly seen at Knock and Lochbuie.

Fallow Deer fawn, Lochbuie

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What impact upon biodiversity these introductions may have had is open to conjecture. However, a possible modern cause for concern is the credible, though sparse and unsubstantiated, recent reports of the appearance of Sika Deer. This species is known to interbreed with Red Deer and produce a hybrid that it is believed less capable of surviving the harshest Scottish winters. If Sikas are here and left unconstrained, this characteristic could seriously threaten the viability of isolated Red Deer populations.

The fox and the rabbit Rabbits have the misfortune to be forever associated with Foxes as a mainstay of the latter’s diet, but on Mull the two species have very contrasting histories. The Rabbit has been variously described as both indigenous and alien, because it has been here for a significant length of time but did not occur naturally following the Ice Age. This is one of the great conundrums of conservation. Is there a cut-off before which a species is ‘native’ or ‘natural’ and after which it is classed as an introduction or invasive? Long (2003) gives a date of 1549 for the introduction of Rabbits to Mull, yet this is probably a reference not to their arrival so much as to the fact that Sir Donald Monro (High Dean of The Isles) reported them as already being present that year, ‘Inch Kenzie (Inch Kenneth) (being) full of cunnings (rabbits) about the shores of it’. Whether or not they were eradicated and subsequently reintroduced is not recorded, but in 1772 Pennant told of Rabbits being recently imported and present in the parishes of Kilfinichen and Kilvicheon. This story is repeated in the Old Statistical Account of 1795, which says that ‘the rabbits may be called strangers, having appeared first within these few years’. Rabbit on Lunga, Treshnish Isles



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The balance of probability suggests that Rabbits were on Mull long before 1769. It is likely that they were an important and cheap source of food and pelts for many centuries, as they were since first introduced to Britain by the Normans (or perhaps the Romans). Rabbits are now ubiquitous to Mull and other islands, including Iona and even the Treshnish Islands where they were introduced in 1867 by the lobster fishermen who spent summers there and enjoyed the dietary variation that they afforded. Foxes are popularly misconceived as being among the species (such as Red Squirrels and Grass Snakes) that the sea prevented from reaching Mull. In fact, they had a highly visible presence. Notwithstanding Arctic Fox remains being found in Livingstone Cave on the Isle of Ulva (whose name, incidentally, derives from the Norse Ulvoy, meaning wolf), it is probably the case that the Red Fox (Britain’s sole current native species) was never indigenous to Mull but was an import. If so, the perceived error of that introduction is well documented. In the seventeenth century, Martin Martin wrote that ‘foxes abound and do much hurt among the lambs and kids’. This theme was developed by the Rev. Dr John Walker in 1764, who said ‘the fox is a matter of high concern for the public’ and urged its ‘extirpation’. He blamed the overabundance of Foxes on the fact that they could not be shot after the Highlands and Islands were disarmed in the aftermath of the 1745 Jacobite rebellion. People kept few sheep so as not to ‘expose them to certain destruction’ by Foxes. The species was persecuted and in decline when the Old Statistical Account of 1799 noted only that there were some Foxes in ‘the mountains of Torosay’. By the 1845 New Statistical Account, Walker’s desired extirpation was complete, there being ‘not one fox in Torosay parish nor, we might assume, on Mull’. Whether or not Badgers were ever indigenous to Mull is one of those mysteries that may never be resolved. They do not appear in the literature, but there was an intriguing discovery of bones dated to the eighth or ninth century in an excavation of Iona Abbey. They may have been locally caught from the wild or brought from elsewhere for food.

Hare today? Many islanders already lament a decline in hare numbers after barely 200 years of them being on Mull, yet as one of the more recent translocations to the island they have served as vital prey for some of Mull’s oldest species, particularly Golden Eagles. They may well represent those arrivals that do little harm and generally benefit Mull’s biodiversity, but they have struggled to sustain the population levels that suggest the eagles will be able to rely upon them as a food source in the future.

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Which species of hares Mull has accommodated over time, where they came from, and when they arrived is a story that takes a little unravelling. In large part, this is because Mull may be unique in Britain in having two species and a further subspecies of hare living in proximity to each other – or not! The Brown Hare was not recorded in Britain prior to Roman times when it may have been introduced for food. It probably did not reach Scotland until the nineteenth century. The Mountain Hare, sometimes known as the Blue Hare, is the only species indigenous to Scotland but originally was present only in eastern Scotland. No hares inhabited the western Highlands before the eighteenth century, but in 1814–15, Long (2003) tells us, the Brown Hare was introduced to Mull. Mountain Hares took a little longer to come to the island, and when they did, not one but two varieties arrived. The Mountain Hare began to spread westwards across Scotland in the early nineteenth century, reaching Argyll in 1840 after which both it and the Irish Mountain Hare (a subspecies of Mountain Hare) were introduced to Mull for sport, Irish Hares being recorded initially on Calve Island in Tobermory Bay, and at Lochbuie and Glenforsa. Nineteenth-century references also mention a species called the ‘Variable Hare Lepus variabilis’ on Mull, but this is now recognised as a synonym for the Mountain Hare. Mountain Hare, Fidden



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The Brown Hare appears to have been a successful introduction at first, though a Mr Mackenzie observed in 1888 that they were fairly numerous at Calgary ‘some years ago, but have quite disappeared’ and ‘seem to have bred with the Irish Hare, now very numerous here’. Despite this, Berry (1983) records it as present nearly 100 years later, and there are a small number (eight) of Brown Hare sightings recorded on the National Biodiversity Network (NBN) Atlas database in the last 50 years. There are also contemporary (unsubstantiated) reports of ‘white’ hares being seen in winter at sea level. These are most likely to be Irish Mountain Hare which can be found at a variety of altitudes and which may become partially white in winter, whereas the typical Mountain Hare prefers to live above 300 m and turns completely white in winter. The Irish Mountain Hares seen at low altitude may also explain the records of Brown Hares on the island. What are believed to be Irish Mountain Hares are regularly seen at Fidden, in the south-west of Mull, even on the beach! Hybridisation is known in hares, particularly between the Brown and Irish Mountain Hares (whose habitats overlap), so perhaps only DNA testing will now reveal whether any pure-bred species is present today.

The march of the mustelids Pine Marten, (American) Mink and ‘Polecats’ hail from the same carnivorous mammal family (the Mustelidae), but offer different stories that serve to demonstrate the fine line between our objective and subjective opinions about related introduced species. Many folk will declare that there were never any Pine Martens on Mull before 2004, when a pregnant female, whose offspring subsequently populated the island, is said to have arrived as a stowaway on a timber boat. Whether or not this was a genuine accidental migration, or whether the species was introduced around that time by mischievous artifice, is no longer important because they have now spread far and wide – and are likely to remain. There appears to be neither appetite to remove them nor to study the impact of their colonisation. Whatever the case, despite assertions to the contrary, Pine Martens do seem to have been here before. They were reported to be common in 1549 when Sir Donald Monro wrote that ‘the Iyle of Mull’ had ‘many deire, and verey fair hunting games (with many grate mertines and cunnings for hunting)’. Translated this reads ‘many deer and very fair hunting sport (with many great pine martens and rabbits for hunting)’.

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If this is true, the subsequent manner and timing of the Pine Marten’s demise is not recorded, though it is reasonable to assume the cause to be a combination of hunting both for fur and as vermin, and the loss of woodland. That the species probably existed on Mull historically means that it cannot strictly be regarded as an invasive species so much as a reintroduced one. Whatever, martens have received a mixed reception and present a real dilemma for conservationists concerned for a very different environment from that which existed in 1549.

The Pine Marten paradox In Britain, the Pine Marten receives full legal protection and, with the support of significant conservation efforts, it has made a magnificent comeback in Scotland. From being very rare in the nineteenth century and early-twentieth century, today’s population is around 4,000 individuals. It is one of the Highlands’ most-loved animals, both for its luxuriantly furry and perky appearance, and for its obliging preoccupation with jam sandwiches and peanuts. Its inability to resist them enables it to be easily coaxed into private gardens, studied and even photographed at close quarters. On the island environment of Mull, however, the introduction of a new and highly efficient predator gives pause for thought. Martens have a taste for voles and reptiles, have killed Barn Owl adults and chicks at the nest, and have been accidentally caught in shoreline traps (intended for Mink) near already depleted seabird colonies. Such species can ill afford an extra predator at a time when they are already under stress from a range of modern pressures. The case of the Pine Marten illustrates perfectly how we can get caught out by changing perceptions of what is and is not good practice in the world of conservation. Because initial studies did not confirm that Pine Marten is historically indigenous, the species lives in limbo on Mull: it is deemed both a protected and alien species, not to be encouraged but not to be discouraged either. It appears to be an offence to release any accidentally caught animals on the island, so they must be escorted to the mainland and given their freedom there. White-tailed Eagles, on the other hand, were similarly indigenous and eradicated, but then formally reintroduced and officially afforded the freedom of the island. With good fortune, nature will resolve these apparently contradictory approaches by adapting and achieving a balance that accommodates all species.



Invasions, Extinctions and Mull’s Own ‘Gene Genie’ Pine Martens and the conservation conundrum The good news: having been lost for centuries, the Pine Marten is flourishing and widespread. Despite its name the species will live in native woodlands, but they have taken a liking to Mull’s extensive conifer plantations and have spread very quickly. Martens use their faeces (or scats) to mark their territories and it is not unusual to find these markers left along the plantation tracks. In dietary terms, the Pine Marten is a generalist, so Mull meets its needs extremely well. It has a fondness for birds, eggs, carrion, small rodents, beetles and fungi, whilst in autumn it has a particular liking for berries. It is one of Scotland’s most iconic wildlife success stories and a protected species. It is here, it is happy and we are happy. What could possibly go wrong? A report commissioned by Scottish Natural Heritage suggests a few of the things that may go awry, providing a list of Mull’s many tree- and ground-nesting birds that are likely to fall prey to the Marten. These include Corncrake, Cuckoo, Wood Warbler, Yellowhammer and Lapwing – all UK ‘Red List’ endangered species. Martens have been identified as important predators of Hen Harriers and other ground-nesting birds, and the report warns that ‘the presence of martens, together with other introduced species such as American Mink, may cause local extinctions’. This is just one of many conservation conundrums.

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Oversexed and over here American Mink, on the other hand, is absolutely not a protected species. Although similar to Pine Marten in appearance, diet and habit, Britain’s Mink are descended from animals bred for fur in intensive units – and they are very good at breeding. American Mink are highly promiscuous, the female often mating with more than one male, producing anything from 4–8 (or more) young, known as kits. Native to North America, they are genetically programmed to kill their prey opportunistically in large numbers and then store them in cold temperatures until they return to eat them. Mink have therefore retained the urge to kill seemingly indiscriminately such that their burgeoning population has cut a swathe through ground-nesting bird colonies throughout Mull and much of the Hebrides. The most notable single event was the complete destruction of an internationally significant Common Tern colony in 2008. Four years earlier, the site – a European Special Protection Area called Glas Eileanan in the Sound of Mull – had almost 1,000 breeding pairs of terns. On some islands, this behaviour has prompted the trapping and extermination of Mink as vermin, but Mull is deemed by Scottish Natural Heritage (SNH) as being too close to the Scottish mainland for intensive culling to be effective, as they are excellent swimmers thought likely to be capable of quickly repopulating the island. This means that, despite their threat to its natural biodiversity, the American Mink will remain on Mull. Mink at Caliach



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A phantom species Polecats are discussed here as a ‘phantom’ species because they illustrate a phenomenon that is relatively common in places where expectation of seeing a plethora of wildlife is high: that people will start to see species that they would like to see. Many people have reported sightings of ‘real’ Polecats on Mull, but what they are almost certainly seeing is a descendant of introduced domesticated animals (ferrets) brought to the island in the first half of the twentieth century. No animal has ever been recorded on Mull that has all the characteristics needed to be pronounced a ‘pure’ Polecat. Furthermore, there is no record of Polecats anywhere in Argyll at all until an introduction during the 1970s, which may itself have failed as none have been recorded in the county since the 1990s. Prior to the 1900s they were hunted in Scotland in extreme numbers as both vermin and for their pelts. In the 1830s, 600 furs a year were being sold at Dumfries market. Consequently, they are widely believed to have been eradicated throughout Scotland, although it has been suggested that a small population may have hung on in Caithness and Sutherland. In these circumstances the chances of a remnant population holding out unnoticed on Mull are extremely slim.

More than just the animals When we consider translocation of species there is a tendency to think foremost in terms of animal species. However, it is often the case that the greatest changes to biodiversity come from plant species, usually accidentally introduced by people who have brought them into their gardens, but also as seeds carried by birds. There is good reason for concern about a number of new flora that have unwittingly been liberated on Mull in recent years, and this goes further than the species merely exerting dominance over an indigenous plant. The problem is that a successful colonist may adversely impact the environment for a profusion of other species, cause changes to land surface, and play host to locally unknown pests and diseases. Mull has several such plant species that are now well established.

Beauty and the beast The accusation of malign invasiveness is most often levelled against the rhododendron. It came to Mull as a decorative landscape plant, but was also possibly introduced as ground cover for game birds at the time when sporting estates were being developed. It is extremely difficult to control, not least because however fast it is cut down, it will seed or re-emerge from sub-soil suckers. Despite efforts to

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contain it, parts of Mull, notably along the approach road to Lochbuie, are now so inundated that it is difficult to foresee where its inexorable march across the island will end. A similar problem occurs with Japanese Knotweed, which has probably been imported to Mull in soils and is established in several areas. It can sprout from tiny sections of rhizomes, so can be transported almost invisibly. The roots can grow up to 3 m deep with a spread of 7 m in all directions. Moreover, being prone to break off at the rhizome and regenerate, it is almost impossible to dig out. It is also notoriously capable of causing damage to buildings and infrastructure. Like

If it looks like a Polecat and behaves like a Polecat… Instead of pure-bred, native Polecats, what Mull has is Ferrets or Polecat/Ferret hybrids. These were introduced to the Island circa 1933, soon escaped and, in J.L. Long’s no-nonsense view, ‘are now firmly established and a pest’. Confusion often arises because Mustela putorius, the Polecat species to which British animals belong, is the ancestor of the domestic Ferret Mustela (putorius) furo. This domestication is unlikely to have occurred more than 2,000 years ago, so there is little genetic difference between the two today. They can, though, be generally (if not with 100% certainty) be separated by appearance. The two species tend to differ in markings and colour so, whilst they have been known to ‘breed back’ to some extent, tell-tale signs remain. The Mull animal pictured may look like a Polecat, but its fur is too pale, and the dark facial ‘mask’ is not sufficiently developed. The hybrids, which are seen regularly and sometimes set up home in woodpiles or under sheds, are classified as vermin and can legally be trapped without a licence. However, aside from colour and markings, the hybrid is indistinguishable in shape and behaviour from ‘pure’ Polecats, and the pure-bred ones are afforded a high degree of protection under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 as a native species. A suggestion that invites consideration is that, because their appearance and behaviour are similar and hybrids are behaving ecologically in the same way as a genetically pure equivalent, we should slacken the noose on them and accept hybrids as ‘honorary’ polecats, with all the same legal protections. The Polecat/Ferret shown was found dead at Gribun and its identification confirmed by the Vincent Wildlife Trust.



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rhododendron, it can stifle native vegetation as well as limit plant and animal species diversity. It has been described as having the biodiversity value of concrete! One species already known to have had a particular impact is the cotoneaster Cotoneaster horizontalis, an escapee from gardens. The subspecies scotica of the Slender Scotch Burnet moth (p. 254) is found nowhere else in the world other than Mull, Ulva and Gometra. The only foodplant of its caterpillars, Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil, has been squeezed out in places by the spread of cotoneaster. This has prompted some intensive clearance work supported by helicopters, with some signs of progress for the moth, but only time will tell how successful this has been.

When domestic meets wild… Gunnera or Giant Rhubarb is another ‘outlaw’ plant that has successfully made a bid for freedom from domestic gardens. Thriving in Mull’s mild, wet climate, it grows up to 2 m tall and poses a threat to native vegetation, biodiversity and landscape character. Scottish Natural Heritage has been seeking to eradicate it on other Hebridean islands and has let it be known that gardeners allowing it to grow or spread outside their garden could now be committing an offence. Gunnera at Glengorm

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Wild Mull Rhododendron ponticum: a terrible beauty

The rhododendron Rhododendron ponticum was actually present in Britain before the Ice Age but did not recolonise after the ice had retreated. Like the rest of Britain, the ecology of Mull grew up without it before it was brought back to Britain as an ornamental shrub in 1763. Its beauty and usefulness as a hardy, prolifically flowering plant in expansive landscapes cannot be denied. Unfortunately, those values are not the whole story. The main problem is that rhododendron can spread very efficiently from both suckers and seeds, grows to the height of a medium-sized tree, and shades out everything around it including native plants (particularly grasses, herbs and flowers). It is particularly damaging to birch woodland, which cannot regenerate because seedlings are unable to establish. As rhododendron spreads and native plants disappear, animals (including insects) relying on those plants for food cannot survive. Thus, rhododendron builds such expansive and essentially barren areas that, even 30 years after being cleared out, the landscape has not regained the understorey species composition found in uninvaded sites. If this were not sufficient, the pollen of Rhododendron ponticum contains toxins, and honey produced from its flowers can be harmful to people if eaten in sufficient quantity. These toxins can also be harmful to animals which, when combined with rhododendron’s tough, unpalatable leaves, means that it is not controlled by grazing, unlike many more useful plant species. Finally, a lesser-known danger of this plant is that it can be host to pathogens that cause severe damage and mortality to other plants, including European Larch and Common Beech trees. Sadly, rhododendron’s seductive qualities cannot hide the fact that, on Mull, the plant is a biodiversity time bomb. Rhododendron ponticum, Lochbuie road



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The final example of an ornamental escapee, American Skunk Cabbage, is a very recent arrival. So far, it is limited to relatively few areas of Mull but has already shown a propensity to quickly establish a foothold in particular habitats. It is a plant of boggy places that can travel by means of waterborne seeds and in garden waste. Once again, it can not only stifle native plants, but also carries the additional hazard of being extremely toxic to mammals when eaten. Part of the difficulty in eradicating it is that the seed remains viable in the ground for many years, meaning that it can emerge anywhere at any time. Beautiful in the garden, it is undesirable in the wild, and is one to be avoided when planning a bog garden!

All change In the past, most changes to Mull’s biodiversity have been slight, gradual and barely noticeable, meaning that life, in all its variety and extraordinary adaptability, has adjusted successfully. This being so, should we be concerned that the odd species has gone missing or a new species introduced? The answer probably lies in the point that although ecosystems and landscapes may have altered in the past, there has usually been sufficient time and resilience for nature to ‘reset’ and retain a healthy overall balance. However, if ecosystems are already strained, and biodiversity made vulnerable by extreme events or our own mistakes and misjudgements, then we are right to be wary of the potential consequences. Unfortunately, much of the resilience that has protected nature in the past is today weakened and strained to its limit. Skunk Cabbage, Fishnish

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The sheer speed and scale of changes caused either directly or indirectly by our current lifestyles is unprecedented in history, and gives nature no time to adapt or evolve. Magnificent as its wildlife resources are, the Isle of Mull has not been, nor will it be, untouched by these changes. Much-loved bird species that were once more numerous on Mull and surrounding islands, yet threatened today, include Eider, Lapwing and Puffin. Even the iconic bird that is so recognisable, populous and identified with Mull that it was chosen as the logo for the Mull Bird Club, the Oystercatcher, has now been listed internationally as ‘near threatened’. This chapter has illustrated how historical accounts help paint a complex picture of some of the many introductions, changes to or losses of species that Mull has already experienced. Some species have both come and gone, some have stayed and become firm favourites in the panoply of the island’s wildlife, and some are unwanted but seemingly here to stay. Suffice to say that measuring the impacts of species change is a complex science, but it should be noted that several of the introduced species mentioned in the above discussion have undoubtedly had a benign presence on the island. Some have been mentioned simply to dispel myths about their status on Mull. Other examples have illustrated the moral maze in which we occasionally find ourselves when confronted by ‘alien’ introductions, and some changes in species are quite simply known to be damaging to the island’s environmental health. Taken together, they show that there is a complicated backstory to what we believe to be our ‘natural’ world.

A ‘wild’ biodiversity? Of Mull’s current 26 species of land mammal species, 11 are not ‘indigenous’ and at least 11 have been deliberately introduced or reintroduced over time (although probably 3 have since been eradicated; Table 4.1). One species (the Red Deer) has been genetically manipulated to strengthen the indigenous stock. This prompts questions as to how ‘wild’ is any part of the biodiversity of Britain, but especially that of Mull, and how might this, and lessons from the past, inform management or conservation in the future? Populations of species are inherently limited by the current carrying capacity of the island, so any future introductions and exterminations might be expected to have a disproportionate impact or be the agent of a changed ‘species equilibrium’.



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For the present, will each of the surviving species be generally accepted as having a role within a wild environment, or will future considerations call for more to be managed on the grounds that they are disproportionately damaging to a healthy biodiversity? Indeed, to what extent is it felt appropriate for humans to carry on tampering with wildlife on Mull at all? Because Mull is an island and does not have permeable borders in the same way as the mainland, perhaps its status as a ‘Premiership’ wildlife haven could prompt a unique biodiversity stocktake, and perhaps such a study might provide some thought-provoking realisations to inform future conservation policy.

Table 4.1  A summary of mammal introductions and exterminations Species

Date of introduction

Rabbit (Mull)

Date of eradication

pre-1549 pre-1695

c.1810

Roe Deer1

c.17th century

c.1850–80

Feral goat2

post-1769

Fox

c.1808

Mole Brown Hare

1814

Mountain Hare

post-1840

(Irish) Mountain Hare

post-1840

Rabbit (Treshnish)

1867

Fallow Deer

1868

Red Deer

4

c.1868

Polecat/Ferret

c.1933

American Mink

post-1988

Pine Marten Feral Cat

c.18883

c.2004 unknown

1

Post-1590 and roughly pre-1760

2

This date is speculative

3

But possible records of it surviving subsequently

4

New strains were introduced to breed with the indigenous stock

post-1549

Common Lizard

FIVE

Fangs, Fins and Fur ‘Now it sounded from the dark cover close at hand, awakening all the echoes of the valley, and then was answered from the shoulder of the mountain in a long bray, which rang upon the clear, still night air, and died away in a lugubrious groan…’ Henry Davenport Graham, Birds of Iona and Mull 1852–70 (1890)

Making some connections How many images is it possible to conjure of wild Otters in a vast island seascape? Would it include an animal sinuously negotiating a choking kelp bed in the swell and dip of the tide? A pair of cubs play-fighting in the shoreline crèche where mother has left them? Or a quietly dozing, curled up adult, sated by a long meal, confident in its camouflage among the seaweed? Countless people sense a ‘lightness of being’ engendered by the sight of an Otter going about its daily chores. These experiences – crouching with bated breath, captivated by the apparently mundane – are indisputably very far from ordinary. How much richer, then, is our connection to that animal if we have a grasp of where it thrives, what conditions and other species it interacts with, where its strengths and vulnerabilities lie, or what special attributes set it apart from other species. The same can be said of all species, because trying to understand natural history is a quest to see the world from their perspective, rather than just our own, regardless of how large or small they may be, or however numerous. This, of course, includes amphibians, reptiles or freshwater fish but, there being so few on Mull, to dedicate a chapter to exploring each individually would make for very short texts. Nevertheless, they are important animals that cannot be overlooked, so for this reason they have been added to the following expedition through the world of Mull’s mammals. The creatures covered are each specialists in their own environments but pausing to consider them together affords the opportunity to imagine how they connect and where each would be without the others. Thinking in this vein, we can begin to understand the real meaning and richness of ecosystems and biodiversity. Robert Berry tells us that in the 1980s Mull and its surrounding islands were home to 23 ‘wild’ mammals (excluding bats and seals), and 6 reptile and amphibian species. There were also probably 7 or 8 species of fish. Since the 1980s, Pine Marten

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and American Mink have been added. However, for an honest appraisal of an ecosystem, domestic animals also must be included, notably cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, horses, dogs and cats. Most of these are rarely considered as ecological influences, but they are all essential ingredients in a complex mix, which includes ourselves.

Small is beautiful Excluding the marine mammals, which are considered elsewhere, mammals are a diverse class of animal. The following text looks at them randomly, using taxonomic grouping only loosely and where convenient. It begins with one of the most diminutive and least visible rodents. The humble Field Vole is first into the spotlight, not only because it is common, but because it is arguably the most important mammal, making a pivotal contribution to Mull’s ecosystems. Field Voles live best in ungrazed grassland, heath and moorland habitats, inhabiting a secretive world only occasionally revealed by the tunnels produced as they forage through long grass. Eating mainly seeds, roots and leaves, these small rodents (9–11 cm long) are also partial to nibbling the bark from saplings, thereby killing them and earning the vole the accolade of number one pest in new plantations. Voles are predisposed towards four- or five-year cycles of population explosion and decline, and plagues of voles were recorded as having a devastating effect upon forestry in Scotland during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However, their ecological value is that they provide essential food for other animals, both furred and feathered, particularly raptors. So close and responsive is the relationship between prey and predator that the breeding success or failure of birds such as Hen Harriers and all of the owls can be determined by increases and decreases in the vole population.

Our largest beast From one of the smallest mammals to the largest land mammal in Britain, the Red Deer is an important and treasured part of Mull’s biodiversity. Notwithstanding judgements about Reed Deer numbers, their grazing can benefit a wide range of bird, mammal, insect and plant species across a variety of ecosystems. Throughout the year Red Deer may be seen all over the island, especially when they come down from the mountaintops to avoid the harshest winter weather.



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The Maze Runner… Unlike the players in the dystopian film The Maze Runner, the inconspicuous maze-running Field Vole is not eager to stray too far from the secure labyrinth that it calls home. This pint-sized mammal has been modestly playing a key role in sustaining a diverse range of species in the British Isles since the Ice Age. Although not on all the Hebridean islands, they are omnipresent on Mull, and their easy availability as prey explains a lot about the island’s ability to support a healthy biodiversity. Vole nests tend to be well disguised under tussocky grass, and from these they access an extensive network of surface runs, burrows and stores stocked with foraged food. Voles are predominantly, though not exclusively, nocturnal, with their main activity at dawn and dusk. Although this is when numerous raptors and a range of carnivorous mammals will hunt them, the voles need to keep actively feeding in order to fuel their incessant reproductive urges. If they manage to survive predation, a female vole can have up to nine young per litter. With several litters a year and animals sexually mature when about six weeks old, suitable conditions enable the species to quickly make up population losses. The only constraints on the breeding cycle are habitat loss and the onset of winter. To see them through the cold, voles develop thicker fur but, even so, few animals will see more than one winter. As mentioned already, a particular vole characteristic – and reason for its notoriety in some circles – is the habit of eating bark on young trees. This may be a consequence of their teeth not having roots and continually growing. On a diet of soft-fleshed vegetation their teeth would eventually grow too long and restrict their ability to eat. So, the theory goes, by gnawing the tough tree bark, voles keep their teeth worn down to a manageable size – and thereby infuriate foresters.

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The calm, intimate, unflinching gaze of a full-grown stag in his prime can be humbling, although to encounter one on a dark night as he stands four square between yourself and your front door can also be intimidating. Each spring they cast their antlers, giving them a briefly vulnerable appearance. The antlers regrow remarkably quickly, initially covered in a soft baize-like skin, at which time the deer are referred to as being ‘in velvet’. The antlers are fully grown by late summer, in time for the rut, when with luck the occasional ‘royal stag’ may be seen, with twelve points (six on each side) on his antlers. Red Deer stag, Glen More



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The deer’s natural and historical habitat is woodland, where animals would seek cover from predators such as wolves. Today wolves are long gone yet the deer retain a remarkable knack, for such a large animal, of maintaining an invisible presence even in the sparsest woodland. Often their existence is betrayed only by many worn tracks which wind around the understorey and down the hillsides. They have, however, been forced to adapt more to a life in the open as woodland has become scarce and they have been fenced out of plantation forests and encroaching development. There is a particularly good chance of seeing Red Deer in the fields on the Grasspoint road and the extensive marshes between Lochdon and Inverlussa.

Too much of a good thing? Red Deer are both a wild species and an economic resource, to be harvested for food via the lucrative business of stalking. The difficulty for landowners and policymakers is to maintain the balance between their commercial value, their importance as a wild element in the environment and the detrimental effects that excessive numbers have on natural heritage and various land-use interests. Left unmanaged in high concentrations, Red Deer can be seriously harmful to woodland regeneration, ground-layer species and fragile ecosystems like peat bogs. With no natural predator, people have to cull them in order to prevent numbers from exceeding the carrying capacity of the ecosystem. However, in response Red Deer herd, watching an approaching stag during the rut

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to mounting public concern about persistent damage, a 2016 review of Scottish deer reported no confidence ‘that present approaches to deer management will be effective in sustaining and improving the natural heritage in a reasonable timescale’. We therefore have a problem. In the mid-twentieth century, the ecologist Frank Fraser Darling conducted a ‘West Highland survey’ for Scotland’s Department of Agriculture, in which he recommended that Red Deer numbers should be limited to 60,000 throughout the whole of the Highlands. In 2019 there were more than 7,000 on Mull alone, with an average population density of 8 deer/km2. Across estates, densities ranged from zero to 29 deer/km2 (on Burg). The overall population is now starting to show a declining trend but this comes after consistent growth between 2000 and 2016, when less than 14% of deer were culled (a rate that may seem high but was actually among the lowest in Scotland). The broad consensus is that numbers remain too high, particularly on land that also has sheep densities of 40–70 per km2. High densities cause problems, not only for wider biodiversity, but for the health of the deer themselves, leaving them underfed and in competition for food. Sadly, losses occur in harsh winters. In 2019, a year of wet though not especially cold weather, mortality on Mull was approximately 20% for stag and hind calves, up to 10% for adult stags, and 8% for hinds.

Fire-fanged demons, and handsome interlopers Regardless of debates surrounding the efficacy of meddling with deer, they remain one of the animals most evocative of the wild. Henry Davenport Graham, in his Birds of Iona and Mull 1852–70, vividly described an encounter when returning one night from Glen More: I walked for several hours under this radiant moon till I came, at about eleven o’clock, to a place called Ardura, a wooded glen, through the bottom of which runs a broad river. Here I was suddenly startled by hearing an extraordinary noise, like that of a person in the agonies of death, which seemed to proceed from the copse by the roadside. I stopped and listened, when suddenly there burst from every side a roaring like that of a number of bulls, only a much harsher, more quavering noise, more like a howl. Now it sounded from the dark cover close at hand, awakening all the echoes of the valley, and then was answered from the shoulder of the mountain in a long bray, which rang upon the clear, still night air, and died away in a lugubrious groan. I quaked, expecting every moment to see a rabble route of fire-fanged, brazen-lunged demons rush across our road.



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Graham was, of course, witnessing the autumn rut. The deepest roar ‘proclaimed “a noble beast of grace” descending the brae side to dispute the chieftainship of the corrie with the stags of less degree’. This is a very fair description of the intimacy of the Red Deer rut on an October evening. The Gaelic name for ‘October’ is An Dàmahir, derived from damh-dàir which means ‘deer roaring time’. Smaller than Red Deer, the Fallow Deer (the product of nineteenth-century introductions; p. 67) also rut in October. The bucks are distinguished by their palmate (flattened) antlers, and usually have a chestnut and mottled white coat. They occasionally exhibit other colour variations including leucistic individuals with full or partial pigmentation loss. For a number of years recently, a fully white buck was well known at Gruline. On Mull, Fallow Deer are hefted to (meaning they will not stray from) two areas – Lochbuie and Gruline/Knock – where they can often be seen moving in and out of the woodland.

Fallow Deer stag, Knock

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Otters – the Mull Badgers Despite the obvious appeal of deer, many people’s favourite animal is probably the Otter. It is as close as the island gets to having Badgers, insofar as the two are close relatives, both being members of the family Mustelidae, characterised by relatively long bodies, short and round ears, short legs and five toes per foot. That, however, is pretty much where the similarity ends. Otters are superbly adapted for water. Able to close their nose and ears, Otters can dive for 20–30 seconds at a time. With webbed feet propelling them underwater at up to 12 km/hour and long whiskers capable of detecting vibrations and movement, they can hunt successfully in what are often dark, murky conditions. They need to eat around 1.5 kg of prey daily, comprising shellfish, fish such as Butterfish and a wide variety of other animals. On Mull, in the early spring, they often have a ‘holiday’ to inland freshwater pools for a couple of weeks. Here they enjoy a change of diet, feasting on the frogs that have gathered to mate. They do not care for frogspawn, however, and have the not very attractive habit of disembowelling pregnant frogs and leaving the spawn behind. On Mull, beheaded frog remains and piles of frogspawn beside a garden pond are good indicators that you hosted an Otter.

Matters of life and death Most mammals, other than the smallest, have a particular cycle of breeding, usually giving birth in the spring. One of the least understood of the Otter’s distinctive traits is that they can mate and give birth at any time of year. A female typically has two or perhaps three cubs, which are born blind. The female keeps her cubs in a natal holt (a hole that is often under rocks well inland) for several weeks until they are weaned and can be brought to a nursery holt nearer the sea. The male generally keeps his distance except for mating purposes, although he prominently marks his territory with spraints (scented dung) to ward off other males. Territorial ownership comes at a price, however. On occasion, males need to defend their territory against intruders, and fights frequently end with protagonists receiving raw ‘flesh wounds’ around their noses and tails. Otters suffer more serious casualties, however, on Mull’s increasingly busy roads. Around a dozen die each year due to traffic; this has led to the placement of traffic signs to warn motorists, and reflectors to warn Otters, alongside roads. Most casualties are taken to Cardiff University for biopsy, where scientists try to understand more about their lives and ecology. It is sometimes alleged that the average lifespan of a Mull Otter may be lower than the average elsewhere of 8–12 years. It had been suggested that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) may have accounted for this, as the long-lasting chemicals were blamed for much of the



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Otter’s UK decline 50 years ago and even subsequent to the 1986 ban on their use. Top predators absorb PCBs in their diet and can suffer a build-up to harmful levels. High amounts are still found in porpoises and other marine-feeding mammals around the Scottish west coast. PCBs can have an adverse impact on reproductive and immune systems, increasing susceptibility to disease, reducing life expectancy and possibly lowering numbers of offspring. Although PCBs may not now directly impact Mull’s Otters, the otherwise healthy population may still be compromised to a degree by something in their lifestyle. Hopefully, future research will provide grounds for optimism.

When the going gets tough… the tough get going Seeing an Otter cruising serenely offshore on a dead calm sea, its thin silvery wake tinged orange in the dusk of late summer, occasionally executing its tip-up dive, which ends with a characteristic little tail flick, is a life-affirming moment. Similarly, when winter winds lick light spray off the crest of waves, it can be exhilarating to witness the apparent ease and comfort with which Otters continue to hunt. These tenacious animals are admirably adapted to withstand the rigours of their environment – but even so there are limits to what they will endure. Otter on the lookout

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The demands of the harsh island coast mean that Otters need to stay warm and waterproof, and this is where being a specialist helps. Their unique adaptation is the fur that traps air for insulation. This requires much maintenance, both through grooming and by washing in fresh water to take away the sea salt. Sometimes Otters do this by secretively scurrying up culverts and following burns inland from the sea, but their movements will often be given away by distinctive trails through the grass leading directly from the shoreline to freshwater pools and burns. Their special fur consists of an exceptionally fine, dense undercoat of more than 70,000 hairs/cm2, with a coarser outer layer of oily hairs that repels water. Unfortunately, so luxuriant is their fur that it was once a very desirable commodity. Otter skins were traded locally from the fourteenth century and exported from Scotland from the seventeenth century. In 1620, a pelt could fetch as much as 40 shillings, the equivalent of 40 days’ wages for a skilled tradesman. Records from the old Dumfries fur market show 226 skins being traded in 1831 although, predictably, the trade subsequently declined in tandem with the Otter population. Nor were the Otters helped by the growth in popularity of salmon and trout fishing, which meant that they additionally became targeted as a threat to fish stocks. How much these attitudes impacted upon the Mull Otter population is not recorded, but they, as much as any animal, are true survivors.

A passing phase Mustelids are the largest family in the order Carnivora (meat-eating mammals), which has led to all British members of this group, on occasions, being branded as vermin and persecuted for doing what comes naturally, be it taking fish, chicken or a wild animal. It is therefore no surprise to find that, in the nineteenth century, Henry Davenport Graham was complaining that Mull’s Stoats were a threat to wildlife, being particularly ‘destructive of ringed plover’. Fortunately, Ringed Plover are quite common today, but the Stoat’s obsessive, questing sorties remain a threat to many bird nests. The Stoat is also called an ‘Ermine’. Its prized fur comes from the animal’s white winter coat phase, as developed in parts of Britain in accordance with climatic conditions. As such, the Stoat is one of very few animals that change their colour to escape detection by camouflaging themselves from predators against the snow of winter. This characteristic has not been confirmed on Mull, where the climate is perhaps not harsh enough to warrant it. With lower snowfall more prevalent due to climate change, the ermine phase is in any event likely to occur less and less. However, Stoats will continue to go through moult phases when their very dense, fine fur is shed in spring in favour of a thinner, coarser summer coat and vice versa in the autumn.



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There are long odds on seeing Weasels on the island, but whilst Harvie-Brown asserted that they have never bred on Mull, despite them being widespread in mainland Scotland, Morton and Bowes recorded them as present 100 years later in the 1980s, and a few contemporary witnesses aver that they are present today. The NBN Atlas, however, has no records.

The person of the mud and other beasts Moles have historically been absent from many islands off the coast of Scotland with the exception of Skye, Bute and Mull, where they were accidentally introduced in about 1808. They are rarely seen, but play an important role in influencing biodiversity, through their tunnelling and turning of the soil. It is thought they arrived in boatloads of soil from Morvern, which were intended for mixing with clay and ashes for laying down as cottage floors. (As an aside, the tamping down of the floors would quite often be achieved by means of a ceilidh being held in the house before the occupiers moved in, with dancing continuing until the floor was ‘set’. It is hoped the moles were long gone by this time.)

Molehills at Croggan

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The Mole is particularly well blessed with names in Gaelic. Neach a’ phuill translates as ‘person of the mud’, but a personal favourite is Famh a bhios a’ fàgail slighe ùir no poll às an dèidh (which means ‘the mole that leaves a trail of earth after itself ’) or Famh-shlighe for short. Also occupying the secretive world of small mammals are the Brown Rat, House Mouse and Wood Mouse (also known as Long-tailed Field Mouse), Water Shrew, Pygmy Shrew, Common Shrew and Bank Vole, whilst two less secretive larger land mammals are goats and cats.

Galleon goats? Domestic goats were probably brought to Mull by Neolithic farmers, and some may well have escaped at that time, but the origins of feral goats on Mull are not really understood. It is romantic and much more entertaining to say that they are survivors of a wrecked Spanish Armada galleon. Exotic as this may sound it is also a common story in many other places, and a more likely explanation is that they were simply domestic animals turned loose when townships were abandoned in the nineteenth century. A 1764 account by the Rev. Dr John Walker tells of how farmers bred ‘a great number’ of goats in preference to sheep which, though less Goat on Gometra



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profitable, were ‘better armed, [and] of greater strength and courage’ to withstand Foxes. The Old Statistical Account of 1795 says that numbers were lower by the end of the eighteenth century, perhaps because the Fox was being hunted out by this time and goats were being replaced by sheep. Nevertheless, there may still have been a good number of goats kept throughout the next 50 or so years, later to be liberated as the ‘clearances’ took effect. The males, more so than the females, have beards. Both sexes have long, tousled hair that is predominantly white, though sometimes varicoloured. Some of the males have particularly impressive, curved horns which indicate their dominant position in a herd hierarchy and help them during the autumn rut. Feral goats occur mainly around Carsaig and the National Trust land around Burg. Always in the coastal region, they generally frequent higher land but will also descend to the shores to feed on seaweed. Gometra also has a remnant population. A tiny all-male brotherhood there seems doomed, but normally they are excellent foragers with a generous reproductive capacity. So much so that although their grazing helps to keep habitats in condition to support a diversity of flora, too many of them can cause overgrazing, thereby invoking periodic culls.

The missing millions The final land mammal is the cat which, sadly and indisputably, has a great influence on the ecology of Mull. This is not the Wildcat, which may have once been on the island (but if so was hunted-out several hundred years ago). These are instead the domestic and feral animals that count among the island’s most impactful predators. In one five-month survey, Britain’s domestic cats alone brought home an estimated 57 million mammals, 27 million birds, and 5 million reptiles and amphibians. Thanks to cats, an estimated 275 million wild animals per annum were dispatched, unable either to breed or to act as food for other species. Worldwide, domestic cats have been implicated in the extinction of at least two reptile species, 21 mammal species and 40 bird species. This amounts to 26% of all known contemporary extinctions in these species groups. It is impossible to deduce from this what the impact might be upon the wildlife of Mull. Suffice to say that casual observations suggest that for each domesticated cat actively hunting on Mull and its islands, there is at least one feral cat. They will, of course, prefer to predate injured or weak prey but nevertheless their impact upon wild animal populations is considerable, particularly on ground-nesting and -feeding birds. The problem is widely recognised, but programmes attempting to catch and neuter feral cats are both expensive and difficult, making them unlikely to greatly reduce cat numbers in the foreseeable future.

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Wild Mull Fair-weather fertilisers!

Common Pipistrelle

‘Don’t hang about if you want to start a family!’ Advice meant to galvanise lethargic prospective parents clearly fell upon deaf ears in the case of the Common Pipistrelle. Pipistrelles mate in autumn, after which they enter hibernation. However, defying any conventional biological clock, the sperm is stored until the following spring before fertilising the female’s egg – a strategy called ‘delayed implantation’ (a skill shared with other bats and several mammals including seals and bears). Only then will the embryo start to grow, and even so its development depends on the weather and the available food supply. If conditions are poor, the embryo will stop developing. Gestation eventually takes around 44–50 days. Usually a single pup is born, hairless and blind, by the end of June, after which the females form nursery colonies separate from the males, often in a roof space. The young bat remains blind for about a week and, like all mammals, the mother will feed it milk until, after about four weeks, it has grown sufficiently to fly and leave the roost. Meanwhile, the males roost in separate colonies, keeping their distance during the summer until they rejoin the females during autumn and winter. Hunting over open spaces, including above water, these small bats catch vast quantities of midges, micro-moths and caddisflies while on the wing, but – although this is not often witnessed – they will actually perch to eat occasional larger insects.



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Mammals in the air Bats receive little attention in historical records of the Inner Hebrides, and even today are under-researched animals generally, let alone on Mull. This is strange given that at least 20% of all UK mammal species are bats, a proportion that may well apply to Mull were they fully recorded. Bats would be easier to identify if they flew by day, but this is a very rare occurrence. Most surveys have to be undertaken by using ultrasound detectors that convert the bats’ echolocatory calls into frequencies audible to the human ear. Fortunately different bats emit calls at different frequencies and repetition rates so it is possible to identify most species, although habitat, behaviour and flight patterns are also important factors. Of the UK’s 17 known breeding species, 10 inhabit Scotland. At the time of writing, however, Mull has only two ‘officially’ recorded species (both pipistrelles), with two more generally considered to be present. Further study would be helpful in confirming these and perhaps in revealing at least one more species, Natterer’s Bat, which ‘ought’ to be present. The most populous known species is the Common Pipistrelle. This is the bat most often seen hunting at dusk and on bright nights, displaying a flitting, darting flight with frequent sharp twists and turns. Feeding is prolific for such a small animal. One bat can catch up to 3,000 midges in a night and, for this reason alone, should be applauded in the Highlands and Islands. Sadly, there seems to be no Scottish Gaelic equivalent of its characterful Irish Gaelic name Ialtóg fheascrachi, meaning the ‘obnoxious bat’. The Soprano Pipistrelle, the smallest of the confirmed species present, derives its name from its echolocation calls being at a higher frequency than those of Common Pipistrelle, though not necessarily in the manner of a soprano. According to the NBN Atlas and Bat Conservation Trust, Daubenton’s Bat and Brown Long-eared Bat are not known from Mull, but are nevertheless believed to be present. The former has a wingspan 5–45 mm longer than that of the pipistrelles (up to 275 mm wide in total) and is associated with fresh water. Its ability to take insects from the water surface means that a diet of small flies including midges can be supplemented with emerging water insects such as mayflies and caddisflies. The last and largest of the four, the Brown Long-eared Bat, was said by HarvieBrown to occur on Mull in the nineteenth century and there are contemporary unverified reports of its presence. This bat’s longer wingspan (up to 285 mm) gives it the ability to fly slowly and sometimes hover. This flight manner enables these bats to feed by gleaning, gathering insects from leaves and bare wood, and even landing on the ground to pick up prey.

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The Natterer’s Bat is generally uncommon in the UK. Although it has not yet been recorded on Mull, it is present on the nearby mainland and may well be here. Accordingly it is worth keeping an eye open for this medium-sized bat with fairly lengthy ears and a bare, pink face.

Care and consideration – the world of reptiles and amphibians There are no Grass Snakes on Mull. If you see a snake it needs no identification: it is an Adder. Unusually for snakes, however, there are colour differences between the sexes. Both have a distinctive zig-zag marking the length of their back, but the male tends to be a silver-grey with a black stripe that stands out a little better than that of the female (usually gingery-brown with a dark brown stripe). An unusual feature is that the female does not lay eggs as most snakes do, but incubates her offspring inside herself before delivering them live, a process known as viviparity. Around August look out for the female with her young, which stay with her for several days before striking off on their own. Adders get a bad press. They are not aggressive but should be carefully approached and kept at a reasonable distance to avoid stressing them into delivering a very unpleasant bite. Their Gaelic name is Nathair-nimhe, meaning ‘poison snake’. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, a Mr Anderson Smith said of Adders: ‘In Mull these reptiles are particularly large and venomous, and are very numerous… Indeed they are generally distributed over the area, although much kept down by the sheep, whose introduction, along with the clearance of brushwood and drainage of land, has removed their favourite haunts and reduced their numbers.’ Despite being reduced in number Adders are still widespread; look for them sunning themselves on tracks, particularly near heather muir, on warm summer days. A species more fondly received, Slow Worm, is not a snake but a legless lizard with a particular liking for the warmth and worms of a domestic compost heap. Despite its Gaelic name (Dall-chnuimh, meaning ‘blind worm’), this lizard can see and hunts long, damp grass for slugs, snails and insects. At up to 50 cm long, Slow Worms are not very much shorter than a small Adder but are unlikely to be confused as they are much slimmer and sleeker, with a shiny grey or browny-gold appearance that lacks the zig-zag back marking. They have the unlikely characteristic of being able to shed their tail to escape from the clutches of predators, and to then grow a new one. Grabbing one by the tail to test this is not advocated. Another tail-shedding lover of warm places is the Common (or Viviparous) Lizard. Less than 15 cm long, it varies in colour from light brown to dark olive-brown.



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It hibernates in the winter, emerging by March to mate, after which the female, like the Adder, gestates the eggs inside her body before giving birth to up to ten live young. They are found in many different environments, from mountainsides to lowlands. The Palmate Newt likes the damp, acidic conditions found commonly on Mull. It does not hibernate as such but will be dormant for most of the winter, except on exceptionally warm days. When it emerges in the spring it will find a pond to breed in, where eggs will be laid singly on pond leaves and wrapped in the leaf for safe keeping. The newt can have a greyish, or browny-green colouration and has the charming Gaelic name of Dearc luacrach (‘the berry among the rushes’, which derives from the newt’s bright, berry-like eyes). The Common Frog and Common

Male Adder, Lochbuie

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Toad constitute Mull’s other amphibians. Both omnipresent, they are traceable in very early spring by their spawn, and later the tadpoles, which often thrive even in shallow puddles on forest tracks or among the seashore rocks.

Colonising the lochs Mull has had several fish species introduced into its freshwater environment, principally during the nineteenth century when Victorian wealth provided the means to experiment with contemporary notions of manipulating nature to meet the desires of sporting estate owners. For a fairly comprehensive explanation of this on Mull we need again go no further than Harvie-Brown’s quest to understand, among other things natural, where the direct agency of man could be detected in the environment. In particular, Harvie-Brown records the efforts of The Maclaine of Lochbuie to introduce a range of species to his estates, The Maclaine having written proudly that American Brook Trout (Brook Charr) ‘have done better here than any other part of the United Kingdome’. No doubt boosted by this, he also introduced Great Geneva Lake Trout, a North American char that is both the largest growing of its family and, in theory, well suited to the climate of Scotland. This species was widely introduced into Europe, and Geneva Lake in New York state still lays claim to be ‘lake trout capital of the world’. It would have been a very attractive sport fish to The Maclaine, who introduced it to ‘The Dog Loch’ on the Lochbuie Estate uplands where the fish are reputed to have grown to a great weight (over 4.5 kg), but may not have succeeded in breeding as they seem to have disappeared.

Lochan a Ghurrabain, Aros Park

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Similarly, Rainbow Trout were put into several waters including Loch Uisg, but the only remaining lochan holding small numbers of them is probably Lochan a Ghurrabain at Aros Park, Tobermory, which was stocked by the local angling club in recent years. The club has also been responsible for stocking Brown Trout to its waters at Mishnish Lochs, which people are welcome to fish upon purchase of a day ticket. Naturally occurring Brown Trout frequent a number of waters, as do Arctic Charr in Loch Frisa and possibly elsewhere, but the real prizes for game fishermen are the ubiquitous Sea Trout (Brown Trout that return to the sea) and Atlantic Salmon, which run in some rivers.

Running the rivers Harvie-Brown tells us that in the late nineteenth century Mull was, for its size, ‘very rich in the salmon family’. He noted that the Sea Trout were always exceptionally prized for their flavour and bemoaned the amount of poaching that went on, not only by poor people: The poorer class of scringers are not blameable to the same extent as those yacht owners who – themselves keen sticklers for the rights of property and the protection of the land where their own property is concerned – do not hesitate to poach all around the coast under cover of darkness. As these yachts are commonly manned by west coast crews, they are nurseries of illegal fishermen, who naturally consider that what is right for their employers cannot be wrong for themselves. The Sea Trout fishing in the rivers and lochs of Mull is still highly prized.

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Atlantic Salmon are less plentiful today, but still present in fair numbers, notably in the River Forsa and Loch Bà. Today conservation concerns inspire the return of captured fish to the waters where, between July and October, Salmon run up the rivers from the sea to breed. This is a species that Mull is fortunate to have, insofar as it has gone from many of Scotland’s rivers. Hopefully Mull’s Salmon will continue to thrive, although their prospects are not enhanced by a worrying number of fish-farm escapes. Almost 415,000 farmed salmon escaped into Argyll waters between summer 1998 and spring 2020. Of these, 80,600 were on and around Mull. This has produced occasional bonanzas for local anglers and seals, but has brought with it a threat. Because farmed stock share their wild brethren’s inclination to run up rivers, the fear is that they will breed with wild animals, thereby weakening the gene pool.

Watery worlds Whilst trout and salmon are considered ubiquitous, Scotland is not noted for its natural stocks of coarse fish, so it is no surprise that a number of introductions of ‘coarse’ fish failed. One can only guess at why they were introduced, but for the most part it would not have been because they were a culinary delicacy. Tench, catfish (probably Wels Catfish) and Gudgeon were placed in Loch Uisg, whilst Black Bass were introduced to Loch Bà and to a small lochan on the top of Laggan Forest. None of these are known to have survived but it is not impossible that there are remnant populations of one or two species. Pike were said to be numerous in the nineteenth century in some Mull lochs, although this is disputed by Campbell and Williamson (1983). It is not known whether Pike survive today, but other coarse fish are found including Three-spined Stickleback, Nine-spined Stickleback and European Eel. The latter is declining in line with the population trend in the rest of Europe. Finally, it is thought that Brook Lamprey are present but research could establish no information about the status of any population. This is a fascinating eel-like animal which, unlike the Sea Lamprey, does not hook onto then feed off other fish. Older than the dinosaurs and suitably primitive-looking, Brook Lamprey has previously been reported from Islay, Skye and Kerrera, and a confirmed record would certainly add lustre to the island’s freshwater species list.

Loch Bà – the site of several fish introductions



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The vegan ‘vampires’ The Brook Lamprey has a very bad press, suffering unfairly from being confused with the nightmarish, vampire-like reputation of their near relative, the Sea Lamprey. The latter is a parasitic fish with a suction-cup mouth and sharp teeth that it uses to latch onto other fish and scour their flesh so as to feed on the host’s blood. Our Brook Lamprey is not that species. Infrequently seen (unless being eaten by a Grey Heron), it is an eel-like fish growing to little more than 15 cm in length. Only another lamprey would love it for its looks. True, it does have a sucker as a mouth, rather than jaws like most fish, but it does not deserve to be stigmatised. It only ever feeds as a larva, hoovering up small organic material from the bed of a river or stream until it transforms into an adult. At this point it is unable to feed at all and migrates upstream to breed. Upon arrival at their spawning beds both sexes use their suckers to manoeuvre small pebbles and gravel to construct a home for the eggs. When the larva hatches, it has no eyes and has not developed the sucker mouth. Quite helpless, it drifts downstream at the whim of the current until it encounters a slow, quiet and muddy area into which it can burrow. Here it will remain, sometimes for years, until it matures into adult form and can migrate to spawn. Waters on Mull that suit the Brook Lamprey are not very numerous, and it is at the northern edge of its range in Britain, so numbers are unlikely to be large. Nevertheless, the hope is that the presence of this extraordinary and extremely primitive fish will be confirmed and celebrated. Just ignore its disreputable cousin.

Buzzard at Grasspoint

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Raptors of Eagle Island ‘I shall use my best endeavours to destroy all Birds of Prey, etc., with their nests, etc. wherever they can be found therein. So help me God.’ Oath demanded in 1808 by the Marquis of Bute of all gamekeepers in Argyll

The hunters of Mull If there were a single image that evokes the wildness of Mull, it might be of the timeless, unfrequented high peaks of the island’s interior. Above them, heroic and free in a world only an eagle can inhabit, would be a far-off bird riding a labyrinth of thermals which they alone were born to explore. ‘Birds of prey’ is an altogether too restrained expression with which to portray the uncurbed array of charismatic talent that is Mull’s predator birds. Much better to think of them more compellingly as raptors. Raptor is a word of the wilderness. It comes from the Latin rapere, meaning ‘to seize’ or ‘take by force’. Although many species will feed off carrion at one time or another, all of Mull’s raptors are primarily hunters given to the expedient pursuit of food using their innate, breathtaking flight techniques, and hyper­ efficient killing tools. All of them deploy the characteristic raptor weaponry of crushingly powerful talons, flesh-ripping curved beak and radar-like eyesight. On Mull they fall into four families: Accipitridae, which are the hawks, eagles, buzzards,

Eagle at Loch Bà

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harriers and kites; Pandionidae, the Osprey; Falconidae, which in Mull terms are Peregrine, Kestrel, Hobby and Merlin; and Strigiformes, of which Mull has sizeable breeding populations of Long-eared Owl, Short-eared Owl, Tawny Owl and Barn Owl (owls are included, although they are not taxonomically ‘raptors’). Only a handful of Ospreys call by Mull each year, mainly on migration and rarely lingering for long. Hobbies, Red Kites (which once bred on Mull) and Marsh Harriers are also tourists but they are rarely seen and only occasionally stay. There are reasonable populations of Merlins, Kestrels and Peregrines, which all breed on Mull and can be seen anywhere, but the tendency for them to live mainly on wild moorland or towering cliffs means that they are almost certainly under-recorded. Supreme flyers all, in their different ways, but the Peregrine has a particularly well-founded reputation as an aerial virtuoso to which one of its nesting territories high on the Gribun cliffs bears witness. On one memorable occasion a female adult was seen to plunge from the crags and skim out of sight behind the profile of the cliff, only for a cacophony of shrill calls to intensify and swell, signalling the storming return of the bird with her mate and four recently fledged young, the six of them blasting along the contour of the cliff like the Red Arrows in formation. Sadly, this female was found dead shortly afterwards, having hit an overhead wire. It seems that the male later successfully bonded with another female in the area; keen observers will still, on occasion, see a Peregrine sitting sentinel-like in profile on the skyline of the cliffs, keeping an interested eye on the Rock Doves as they fly below. The Kestrel was Mull’s most abundant bird of prey in the nineteenth century but numbers have since dropped severely, in line with a national decline. There are also very occasional reports of Goshawks, which probably ought to be resident on the island but breeding is yet to be confirmed. All the above are spectacular, each in their own exceptional way. The remaining species all have a special relationship with Mull, and we are fortunate to have one particular surviving manuscript from a naturalist of Victorian times, Henry Davenport Graham, to embellish our understanding of those relationships.

Male Peregrine Falcon



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Lords of the Isle There are 206 place names in Scotland containing the Gaelic name iolaire (meaning ‘eagle’). The Golden Eagle is thought to be represented by 142, with 64 referring to the White-tailed Eagle. On Mull examples include Creag na h-Iolaire, Aird na h-Iolaire and Beinn na h-Iolaire (respectively meaning the ‘Rock’, ‘Height’ and ‘Mountain of the Eagle’). The decision of the White-tailed Eagles, often called ‘Sea Eagles’, to voluntarily populate Mull at an early stage of the UK reintroduction programme, together with the highest density of indigenous Golden Eagles in Europe, is the reason for the appellation ‘Eagle Island’ being attached to Mull in the 1990s. Indisputably the island’s top predators, by 2020 approximately 70 White-tailed Eagles and 60 Golden Eagles were estimated to inhabit Mull.

Iolaire sùil na greine, Loch na Keal

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‘The eagle with the sunlit eye’ The White-tailed Eagle (referred to for brevity as the White-tail) was descriptively named ‘Soarer’ by the Anglo-Saxons, after its manner of covering miles whilst circling at great altitude, but the more poignant Gaelic name is Iolaire sùil na greine – ‘Eagle with the sunlit eye’ – due to the brightness of the adult’s piercing lemon or golden eye. It takes 4–5 years for the birds to develop this feature, the same time as it takes to gain a fully white tail, yellow beak and mature plumage. This can sometimes lead to the confusion of immature White-tails with Golden Eagles, although when they soar on thermals in the company of Golden Eagles, as they often do, their bigger size and massive square wings stand out. With a wingspan up to 2.4 m (8 feet), White-tails are the third-largest eagle in the world and the largest in Europe. What is certain is that the enormous size and bright yellow colouring of an adult’s beak cannot be mistaken for any other bird. People who know Mull in winter are occasionally fortunate enough to observe the intense courtship behaviour of the White-tails prior to nesting. At the culmination of aerial interaction, the male and female might be seen to lock talons and plunge cartwheeling towards the ground, seemingly intent on a lovers’ suicide, only to disengage before striking the ground and to soar effortlessly back into the sky. For

Pair of White-tailed Eagles ‘dancing’, Glen More



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their size and bulk they are magnificent in the air and, regardless of the rights or wrongs of reintroducing top predators into the wild, it is hard not to be enthralled by these giants of Mull’s skies. That other birds feel well-disposed towards them is less likely. They are frequently tormented in flight by Buzzards, crows, Ravens or gulls – an irritation that a Whitetailed Eagle will tend to accept with equanimity only up to the point where it will suddenly flip upside down and, whilst flying on its back, issue its tormentor a steely warning with a dangerously close-up view of its prodigious outstretched talons. It is true to say that, as well as the other wildlife, humans have not always rubbed along with the White-tails. In 1764 voices such as that of the Rev. Dr John Walker were advocating that pasture on Mull could be used more profitably by farmers importing more sheep, were it not that eagle (and Fox) predation ‘would render their attempts very precarious’. This set in train responses to the effect that, just over 100 years later, Graham recorded as noteworthy that a Sea Eagle ‘had an eyrie in the cliffs of Gribun in 1871, stated by the natives to be used regularly by this bird’, but then went on to describe probably the last few of the Mull birds: ‘though not an unusual sight to see flying in the heavens… we always supposed that they held their royal court and had their nurseries in the Isle of Skye’. Shortly after, they were gone from Britain. The eagles’ eradication and subsequent repopulation of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, and Mull in particular, has therefore become possibly the ‘rewilding’ story of contemporary Britain. During the 1960s and 1970s, White-tails had shown a considerable ability to repopulate parts of Europe. This encouraged conservationists to try reintroductions of young Norwegian birds to Fair Isle in 1968 and the Isle of Rum in 1975.

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The eagle has landed It was not until 1985 that a pair successfully nested, raising the first British-born chick for 69 years – and it was on Mull. Before the White-tail’s extinction, a third of Scottish eyries were estimated to be in the Inner Hebrides so it was perhaps some hard-wired genetic memory that caused this first pair to settle on the Auchnacraig Estate in the south-east of the island. Here they subsequently raised many offspring. Although by 2020 there were more than 20 breeding pairs on Mull, this is by no means the whole resident population and the number of mature and juvenile birds is now so healthy for the island to provide two youngsters as part of another well-​ publicised White-tail reintroduction project on the Isle of Wight, starting in 2019. During winter, it is common to see groups of three or four White-tails, more rarely up to ten or more, sometimes in soaring flight but often sitting by a loch. Any odd lumps and bumps on skerries such as Scarisdale Rocks in Loch na Keal should be examined closely with binoculars or telescope. If they turn out not to be eagles they may in any case be hauled-out seals or even Otters. The practice of young birds roosting in large groups, as found in parts of mainland Europe, has not yet been observed on Mull. Authenticated records were searched for in vain to substantiate old tales of babies being snatched from the field during harvesting but this eagle’s diet and even its means of hunting can be quite eclectic. Diet can range from whale blubber, fish and seabirds to lamb, Mountain Hare and American Mink, which they gather opportunistically. Often the food is carrion, but on several occasions birds have been observed to go to extreme, creative lengths to catch their prey. One was seen to dive on a Greylag Goose in Loch na Keal, hold it under water until it had drowned, then swim for 100 m or so, dragging the goose behind it, until it reached the nearest skerry and could eat it. More commonly, White-tails may be seen on the shoreline studying an Otter fishing. The catch of a sizeable fish that needs to be brought ashore by the Otter is the signal for the eagle to stir itself to harass the poor animal into giving up its dinner. It has to be said that part of the fascination of this kleptoparasitic behaviour lies in the stubborn resistance of the Otter to fulfil its part of the bargain by relinquishing its hard-won meal.



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Rubbing along together The return of the White-tails did not happen without fears that the resident Golden Eagles would be displaced by their larger brethren. Fortunately, research has suggested that there is little conflict in terms of nesting territories. Similarly, a study comparing the food sources of Mull’s Golden Eagles and White-tails when chicks were being raised in the summer suggested that the diets were significantly different, therefore allaying fears that the two species were in competition to feed their young (Figure 6.1). However, the proportion of lambs in the White-tail’s diet has been a cause for concern among farmers. Studies have shown that the greater part of this consists of still-born or sickly lambs, but a Sea Eagle Management Scheme has been introduced in response to some farmers and crofters known to be at risk of losing lambs from eagle predation. The scheme includes monitoring and, if necessary, employing  measures to mitigate impacts on flocks. The fact that the reintroduction of the eagles  prompted follow-up supervision is an interesting sub-plot to a wider discussion has about the extent to which ‘rewilding’ of species still needs to be a managed process. 

 Figure 6.1  Comparative diet of Golden Eagle and White-tailed Eagle on Mull Adapted from Whitfield et al. (2013)

 N.B. The researchers found evidence of fish in the diet of the White-tailed Eagle but to avoid comparative bias fish was excluded from the table. It would have shown an even greater diet separation had it been included.

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In addition to this, the eagles do not discriminate between declining and plentiful species, so may pose a risk to some vulnerable indigenous populations. However, it is also possible that they are a limiting influence on animals such as corvids, which can also prey on vulnerable species. They certainly limit the growing population of Greylag Geese on Mull, a species said to be reaching ‘pest’ proportions on other islands where they feed on arable crops and compete with sheep on improved grassland. The reintroduction of the White-tails highlights the complex relationships inherent in any ecosystem including crops and livestock. It affords a valuable opportunity to reflect upon the level of understanding needed to truly assess the wisdom of releasing top predators as a remedy for our broken environments. Notwithstanding such debates, White-tails tend to be an outstanding attraction, have a rapport of sorts with people and certainly show greater tolerance of our world than Golden Eagles. They will often sit for hours on a beach, rock or tree at comfortably observable distances, or fly low overhead, seemingly so that they can better observe the observers. This, and their liking for swooping to grab fish gifted to them from tour boats tends to explain why there are so many more close-up photos of these birds from Mull than of Golden Eagles. White-tails are also very accommodating about choice of nest sites. They frequently favour trees at low altitude which can be quite comfortably observed and they will fairly predictably return to the same nest year after year.

White-tailed Eagle, Loch na Keal



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Zooarchaeology and the White-tailed Eagle The reintroduction of the White-tailed Eagle to Britain, in which Mull has a starring role, is the culmination of a very long story. There is fossil evidence of White-tailed Eagles living in Britain around 150,000 years ago. They were widespread all over the UK for thousands of years and in archaeology are relatively easy to differentiate from the only other comparable large raptor, the Golden Eagle, by features such as the size of the bones and beak, and the fact that two of the bones in the fourth toe are fused, whereas in the Golden Eagles they are not. Remains found in Orkney’s ‘Tomb of the Eagles’ testify that White-tails had a spiritual and domestic association for people in Britain that extended back to at least 4500 BP, and stretched to archaeological remains in Iona Abbey from medieval times. There is also a strong spoken narrative exhibited in many Anglo-Saxon and Norse cultural references, particularly in poetry and sagas, where eagles are often depicted as carrionfeeders on battlefields. Perhaps the most graphic archaeological evidence in Britain of our own species’ links to White-tails are the formidable artistic and craft skills exhibited in a gold-plated zoomorphic mount found with the Anglo-Saxon Staffordshire Hoard in 2009. The craftsman attempted to depict a 3D object in 2D, with the characteristic beak and huge talons holding a fish. Probably a decoration on a shield, it is similar to another discovered on the front of the shield found in the seventh-century Sutton Hoo burial of King Rædwald of East Anglia.

Staffordshire Hoard: Mount in gold of a fish between birds. Photo © Birmingham Museums Trust

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Although they pair for life, as the population has grown there have been increasing incidences of territorial disputes, which sometimes end with one male being displaced by another. In 2018 the male from a well-known pair at Killiechronan was seen to get into an aerial battle with a younger, bigger bird over Loch Bà. The two of them locked talons and plunged into the loch where the older bird drowned. His nemesis, however, survived and subsequently paired successfully with the widow.

Golden Eagle – ‘the true bird’ The Golden Eagle, for many the ‘King of Birds’, is afforded a reverence given to few animals. It features on the coat of arms of at least 29 countries. It is Scotland’s ‘unofficial’ national bird, and one of its several Gaelic names is Fior-eun, meaning ‘the true bird’. It was famously immortalised in Tennyson’s poem The Eagle (1851): He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. This kind of approbation has not always been afforded to Golden Eagles which, like White-tails, were culled by gamekeepers in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century.

Golden Eagle with prey



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In the second half of the nineteenth century, Henry Davenport Graham told of ‘deserted eyries that have been pointed out to me by older natives, among the precipitous cliffs of the south and west coast of Mull, as having been once tenanted by pairs of eagles’. He described a ‘ruthless war waged by shepherds… as sheep farming extends into the districts once left to solitude and [the eagles]’. By 1938 there were only three eyries left on Mull. Even in 1945, the popular film I Know Where I’m Going, which was shot on Mull, had no qualms about depicting a coach-load of crofters alighting below the cliffs of Gribun then stating that they were off to hunt down a Golden Eagle that had been sighted there. Nowadays the birds tend to be held in higher esteem, and their inimitable flying talents and haughty self-isolation in wilder parts of the country bestow upon them an aura of superiority and a peerless command of their domain. Seton Gordon tells of a belief in the Western Isles of the exceptional longevity of Golden Eagles: ‘As it becomes old it has difficulty feeding, as the upper mandible of the bill is growing over the lower. The eagle then breaks off the incurving portion of the bill on a rock, and when this has been done the youth of the bird is renewed.’ It is true that they can reach a good age, the oldest officially recorded bird being a ringed individual found dead near Inchnadamph, Sutherland. The bird was probably killed in a territorial battle by another eagle and had reached the age of 33 years. Although not all occupied, there are about 30 Golden Eagle territories on Mull plus unknown numbers of juvenile birds (which do not hold territories), but they prefer, probably wisely given their history, to avoid close proximity with people. They can nevertheless be seen relatively easily during the breeding and nesting season as they preoccupy themselves with the business of courtship and nurturing the next generation that will eventually inherit the skies over Mull. The courtship and territorial display, usually performed by the male, can be astonishing. It often takes the form of vertical stoops of hundreds of metres reaching speeds up to 320 km/h with the bird’s wings folded back, until it pulls out of the dive and rises effortlessly upwards again to repeat the process. A pair, once bonded, is faithful to its nesting territory but likely to select a nest each year from several that the birds have developed, usually on crags. On Mull, these nest sites can be found at altitudes from below 200 m up to about 800 m, but tend to be located at about half the elevation of the surrounding land rather than the highest spot, most probably to save energy when bringing in heavy prey.

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Breeding success can be very mixed from one summer to the next. The reasons for the unpredictability are several, but often associated with food availability. Fortunately, we know a little about the feeding habits of Mull’s Golden Eagles, which are not quite the same as other populations of eagle studied in Scotland (Table 6.2). The incidence of sheep in the diet reflects the fact that sheep are kept on grazing land year round at relatively high stocking densities compared to many other parts of Scotland. They are eaten as carrion when they die on the mountains in winter, while their significant summer spike in the eagle’s diet is due mainly to the number and poor survival rate of lambs, most of which (albeit not all) are taken dead. Land management practices have influenced further differences in the Mull eagles’ diet from those in most other areas. A history of overgrazing and general cessation of the muirburn has caused rough grasses to largely dominate. This has meant that grouse and Ptarmigan, which are stock eagle food in most areas and which eat heather and other shoots and insects on woody plants, are much scarcer on Mull today than historically. Mountain Hares also have a liking for heather; in some areas of Scotland where heather is in decline, the proportion of hares in the eagles’ diet has also declined. However, Mull is an exception. Here the Irish race of the Mountain Hare, which feeds on a high proportion of grasses, has been introduced as a quarry for shooting and thrives in eagle territories with comparatively poor heather cover – and what is good for the hare is good for their predators. It is probable that weather plays as great a part in breeding success as does food. Whilst continual cold and damp can debilitate young chicks on the nest, at least as

Golden Eagle territory: the Three Lochs, Glen More



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Table 6.2  The diet of Golden Eagles on Mull Adapted from Watson et al. (2008)

Prey item expressed as % of total diet in each season Grouse/ Other mammals1 Ptarmigan

Season

Deer

Sheep

Hare/ Rabbit

Winter Nov–Apr

14

8

48

10

8

12

Summer May–Oct

8

23

46

7

6

10

Misc2

On Mull this refers mainly to voles and mustelids (Mink, Weasel, Stoat, Otter, Polecat/ Ferret and Pine Marten).

1

Mainly birds such as gulls, ducks, crows, waders, pipits, larks and thrushes, plus a few reptiles and amphibians.

2

bad is windy and damp weather during the autumn and winter that can affect both juveniles and the condition of breeding-age adults. The White-tails have a longer gut and more efficient digestive system than the Golden Eagles and are therefore well-equipped to sit out storms that sometimes last for days, but the Golden Eagles need to hunt often and thus can suffer badly when poor weather becomes particularly prolonged.

The white hawk The Hen Harrier carries the Gaelic name Ian Fionn, meaning the ‘pale bird’, but is also known historically on Mull as the ‘white hawk’, despite only the adult male having predominantly pale grey and white plumage (plus noticeably black wing tips). The female and young birds of both sexes have mottled brown colouration with a clear white band across the rump and pale bars on the tail, giving rise to the name ‘ringtail’. In the 12 years prior to 2017 the number of breeding pairs of Hen Harriers in Scotland fell by 27% to around 460 pairs. Despite this, in a good year there may be 40 or more pairs on Mull and its islands. These numbers, and the way that Hen Harriers hunt by casting backwards and forwards in a relatively slow and low undulating flight across open rough grassland and mountainsides, mean that a keen-eyed observer can pick them out quite regularly with relative ease. However, Mull has not always offered sanctuary. In the 1860s a description by Henry Davenport Graham, himself described by J.P. MacLean as ‘a lover of the feathered tribe’, shows that the island’s Victorian birders were not averse to taking a potshot at them. In an era when photography was not yet able to capture wild birds live,

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naturalists resorted to shooting in order to study and learn more about them. When Hen Harriers were additionally targeted as a threat to game birds and domestic chickens their fate was pretty much sealed. Graham said: One windy day I let one pass me on the sea-shore, mistaking it for a seagull; a number of the small common gulls were flying and hovering about, and the colour of the plumage and black-tipped wings were so similar, that only the different mode of flight suddenly awakened me to the fact that I had allowed a ‘White Hawk’ to escape. It is notable that Graham, in an act of careless improvidence, also named them as ‘Common’ Harriers. It is an unwritten law of the natural world that a species with the epithet ‘common’ attached to its name will eventually be trapped in a spiral of decline – from ‘common’ to ‘scarce’. In 1892 John Harvie-Brown noted, without irony, that the Hen Harrier was ‘decidedly scarce’ on Mull, but that lists produced by ‘bird-stuffers’ showed that they ‘must have been quite frequent not very long ago’. Writing somewhat later, in 1919, naturalist Charles St John complained: My partridges suffer much from the hen-harrier … [he] comes down with unerring aim on his victim, striking dead with a single blow partridge or pheasant, grouse or blackcock. I saw a hen-harrier strike a heath hen [female Black Grouse]. I instantly drove him away, but too late as the head of the bird was cut as clean off by the single stroke [of the harrier] as if done with a knife … There is no more difficult bird to shoot than this. Male Hen Harrier



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Strictly Hen Harriers

Mull’s Hen Harriers provide two of nature’s more fascinating spectacles. The first is the magnificent and utterly engaging ‘sky dance’, a courtship display performed by the male between late March and early May. The graceful, looping, twisting, somersaulting dance is all the more beautiful for the bird’s sinuous, almost ephemeral or ghostly appearance. The second performance is the ‘food pass’ in which both members of a pair engage during nesting. Occupied by the female, the nest is on the ground; the male, which can be polygynous and could be working hard to service more than one nesting female, does most of the hunting. When he brings food back the birds call to each other. As the male flies above the female, she rises up and expertly catches the food he drops; he then flies on without pausing or landing. This is one of nature’s blink-andyou’ve-missed-it otherworldly moments which reward either the incredibly lucky or the very patient!

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By 1923 MacLean unsurprisingly described the ‘common’ harrier only as ‘once numerous in Mull.’ Whatever the historical reasons for antagonism towards Hen Harriers, today islanders do not blame them for the limited numbers of grouse, Ptarmigan or Pheasant. Their diet is far more directed towards small birds such as Meadow Pipits and Skylarks, and Field Voles – species that thrive among the island’s ubiquitous bogs and course grasses. In fact, there appears to be a strong correlation between years of low vole populations and years of fewer nesting Hen Harriers.

Best supporting actor Thus far we have examined the raptors at the very top of any hierarchy of UK celebrity wildlife. In this company the Buzzard (Gaelic name Clamhan) unfairly plays a supporting role. It has somewhat oddly been given the alternative name Sorner in Gaelic. Sorner is a word appearing in Scots–English dialect to describe someone who imposes upon another for food and lodging. For some reason, given that the Buzzard has no discernible characteristic that makes it so deserving, such scorn seems to have been poured on the poor raptor for some time. In 1919, St John called it ‘indolent… lazy… cowardly and ignoble’. Anybody who has seen the pugnacious way that Buzzards engage with White-tails in order to protect their breeding territory will certainly testify that ‘cowardly’ is a particularly unfair epithet to attach to this formidable bird. ‘Only a Buzzard’, Pennyghael



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Even today though, it is still too often disregarded on Mull, and unfairly so due largely to a preoccupation with ‘eagle-mania’ that blinds people to its fine attributes. Despite its much smaller size it is frequently mistaken for an eagle and therefore momentarily admired, only for a correct identification to downgrade it, accompanied by the slapdown: ‘It’s only a Buzzard.’ Injustice is further heaped upon the hapless Buzzard as it also carries the somewhat disparaging and undeserved nickname on Mull of ‘tourist eagle’. Mistaken identification is understandable when, at a distance, the Buzzard’s graceful, soaring mastery of thermals above the skyline is very eagle-like – but it often reveals its true identity when adopting the quick wingbeats that propel it forward, or when it loiters in a Kestrel-like ‘bird on a wire’ hunting mode. Although the Buzzard was confirmed as being extremely rare on Mull and Iona in the late nineteenth century, today it thrives and is omnipresent throughout the islands. Its plaintive and repetitive mewing call is a wonderful evocation of the wild as it cuts through the silence of the day. It is a fine bird, entitled to be recognised as such. Enjoy it!

Sparrowhawk The Sparrowhawk (Gaelic name Seobhag, meaning simply ‘hawk’, though sometimes known as Speir-seobhag or ‘claw hawk’) was another raptor scarce in years gone by but reasonably common today. Its recovery may in part be down to the modern preoccupation for garden bird feeders, which provide bait for small birds and hence a larder for Sparrowhawks. Male Sparrowhawk

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It is a riveting and awe-inspiring sight to see a Sparrowhawk coming in low, fast and silently ‘under the radar’ from a considerable distance away before exploding upon an unsuspecting flock of Siskins cheerfully gorging themselves at a seed feeder. A successful strike will invariably be followed by the hawk taking its victim to the ground and ‘mantling’ over it, covering it over with its wings as if to defy anyone from stealing its trophy. Although Sparrowhawks are said to prefer mature woodland, such as the policy woods surrounding Mull’s large nineteenth century estate houses, it can be seen often in the open and appears to be just as happy going about its business in close proximity to the many Hazel, birch and oak woods.

‘An owl is mostly air’ Why do owls traditionally leave us with such ambiguous responses? The witches in Macbeth invoke a dark side that can raise the hairs on one’s neck in the dead of night, yet to see an owl sitting inscrutably on a fence post, or quietly quartering a hillside, is a source of wide-eyed excitement. The ambiguity, of course, derives solely from what we project onto them and today, unusually in the Scottish islands, Mull can only be advantaged by playing host to four species of owls that live in close proximity to one another.

❁ Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble. ❁

Long-eared Owl

Henry Davenport Graham makes no mention of the Long-eared Owl (Gaelic name A Chumhacag Ad-hairceach, meaning ‘the long-horned lamenter’) on Mull, yet it was almost certainly present in the nineteenth century. However, west Scotland still has a comparatively low population today of what is a notoriously under-recorded bird. Found mainly in Mull’s dense coniferous forests, this choice of habitat may not stem wholly from preference but from the aggressive competition imparted by a relatively recent ‘incomer’, the larger and highly territorial Tawny Owl, which makes its home mostly in broadleaved woodland. Predominantly nocturnal, the Long-eared Owl occasionally flies in the daytime. On such occasions, it may be mistaken for the Short-eared Owl, which is more likely to be about in daylight. Some confusion stems from the fact that the Long-eared does not have long ears at all, but ear-like tufts that are generally kept flattened unless the bird is alarmed.



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Short-eared Owl An encounter with a Short-eared Owl (Gaelic name Comhachag-chluasach; ‘the owl with ears’) is an experience to be savoured. Mull is fortunate in that the species continues to be a regular breeder here, despite its overall UK breeding having contracted by around 50% since 1970. The number of birds across the UK may now be as low as 700 breeding pairs or so, which serves to emphasise Mull’s importance for this species. Even on the island, breeding numbers can vary hugely from year to year so it is worth looking more closely at what we understand about the bird and its habitat. The secret life of the Short-eared Owl Concern in recent years at the decline in Short-eared Owl numbers has prompted research, particularly by the British Trust for Ornithology, which has started to reveal a life for these attractive owls that few could have imagined. It has been found, for example, that the hunting territories of ‘Shorties’ are quite different from those previously understood through daytime observations. Satellite tracking shows that the owls travel high up mountainsides to hunt at night, the timing possibly designed to escape the attention of daylight-hunting raptors (particularly Golden Eagles) and to avoid competition from other owls. Interestingly, when the Short-eared Owl does so, its temporarily vacated daytime domain becomes the hunting territory of the Long-eared and Barn Owls. This is important knowledge insofar as it helps us to understand the condition and size of the area needed to sustain a Short-eared Owl family and to retain territory in appropriate condition to harbour enough voles for different species to thrive on. It also seems that, after nesting, some outlying Short-eared Owls join others at ‘hotspot’ feeding locations on mainland Scotland to which they return year after year. These territories are only just becoming known but their identification sparks important conservation issues and a need for protection should they turn out to be as important for the species’ survival as initial findings suggest.

Short-eared Owl

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Wild Mull

Mull’s Short-eared Owls have had a very secretive existence until recently, but knowledge about them is gradually building. This is an enigmatic bird, very wary of people, normally seen well away from hamlets and although it will appear in daylight as well as at night, it is difficult to observe consistently. There does appear to be a close correlation between breeding and the size of the vole population, and the fact that vole numbers tend to increase and decrease over a four- or five-year cycle almost certainly accounts for a similar variability in the owl’s breeding presence. We now know that females abandon their chicks to the care of the male a mere ten days or so after the offspring hatch. She is then likely to go wandering unpredictably in direction and distance, possibly even stopping to raise another brood for a few weeks before moving on again. One such bird was tracked, using a GPS device, from a nest in Perthshire to Norway. It nested again here then flew to western Ireland, then to southern England and so on through one summer and spring before starting again – eventually perishing over the sea as it headed back to Norway. Other birds move around the UK mainland, some go to western Europe and at least one is known to have made its way to Africa. This constant movement, of the female in particular, has implications for establishing accurate counts. It is intriguing however, to consider that a bird we watch quartering heath on Mull could shortly be heading off – perhaps hundreds of miles, to nest again on a foreign muir.

Barn Owl Who does not feel drawn towards A Chumhacha bheag (‘the little sorrowing one’)? Ursula Le Guin, the American writer, said that ‘an owl is mostly air’. Had she been watching a Barn Owl floating over a hillside, moth-like, at dusk? Was she close to its silence as it left its roost? Or did she weigh its lightness in her hand one time? Graham said that ‘a stray specimen of the “White Owl” is seen or shot from time to time on the mainland of Mull. Though we have a venerable ruined belfry [the pre-restoration Iona Abbey] and a moon in Iona, we have no owl to live in the one, or “mope her melancholy” at the other.’ In discussing the Highlands in general, St John confirmed that ‘the White or barn-owl is rare here and very seldom seen. I believe him to have been almost eradicated by traps and keepers.’ These popular and beautiful birds have always been scarce on Mull and Iona, and their existence here remains precarious. Whilst they can often be seen around the UK during daylight, this is less likely on Mull, possibly in response to the threat presented by the number of daytime-hunting raptors. In recent years Barn Owl nests



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have also become the target of Mull’s newest predator, the Pine Marten, and there have been instances where chicks and even adults have been taken from the nest. Road deaths are regularly reported, if not quantified, relating particularly to newly fledged young in the late summer and autumn that are dispersing from their home ranges. Life is so hazardous for a young owl that a UK-wide study of 101 birds tracked following fledging found that 80 died before their first birthday.

Barn Owl

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Barn Owls do not defend their hunting area from others of their own species. It is more accurate to describe such an area as a ‘home range’ than a territory, and a nesting pair will often share a range with others. Selective surveys on Mull have confirmed that many home ranges are consistently occupied by adult birds, but their breeding success is very inconsistent. In some years very few birds are fledged, but Barn Owls are also capable of considerable productivity: in 2020, one pair reared eleven chicks across two broods. As Mull has always been close to the most northerly distribution of the species, we might expect a population increase over time due to milder temperatures and a corresponding increase in vole populations. However, predictions of global warming impacts on northern Britain also include increases in gales and rainfall, conditions much to the dislike of birds generally and owls in particular when inclement conditions stymie hunting. Rather like Mull’s Hen Harriers and other owls, Barn Owls are almost totally dependent upon the vole population. A pair feeding chicks could be required to hunt in the region of 5,000 voles in a season, which demonstrates tenacity and a commitment to parenting. When the bottom fell out of a nesting box being monitored it was thought that the four chicks had spilled onto the ground and been lost to predators. However, mysterious piles of voles were noticed to be spread around the vicinity, and a search near these piles revealed that three chicks had dispersed on foot, were hiding under cover, and had obviously each been fed for some time by the parents. The owlets were put back into the repaired box and a search next day located the fourth chick, which had also been kept fed. All four chicks survived cold, damp and predators to successfully fledge.

Tawny Owl The Tawny is the ‘hooting’ owl, so often mimicked by people. It is quite possible to attract the attention of a Tawny Owl (Gaelic name Chumhachag-dhonn, meaning ‘brown owl’) by imitating its familiar call, to which it will often reply. During autumn and winter courtship, an aviary on Mull caring for rescued and damaged Tawny Owls becomes the scene of hooting duets between captive and wild birds. Eggs can be laid anytime from mid-February through to April. It is worth mentioning that, during nesting, the Tawny Owl is the opposite of the easy-going Barn Owl. Tawnies can be as aggressive as any bird and not in the least bit afraid to use their talons on the head of anyone who encroaches too closely. Although ‘Tawnies’ prefer deciduous woodland, they will also occupy pine forest, often taking over the disused nests of Mull’s ubiquitous Hooded Crows. Their diet is similar to the other owls, i.e. mainly voles, but they tend to hunt by dropping on

Roosting Tawny Owl

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their prey from a branch. Tawny Owls are also more likely to include invertebrates, particularly earthworms, in their diet. This is not a species fond of travelling over large expanses of water, and the relatively short flight to the mainland may explain why Mull is one of very few islands with Tawny Owls. In fact, the ‘brown owl’ is mentioned consistently over time as being on Mull, but not as commonly as others – and the Long-eared Owl was historically the more populous. This may seem surprising given the Tawny Owl’s greater bulk and territorial aggression towards other owls, but along with its reluctance to travel over sea, this smaller population is probably due to the fact that until the turn of the twentieth century Mull lay at the northern limit of its range. However, a period of climatic warming in the early years of the twentieth century saw the Tawny extend its range northwards, and a population increase gave it territorial dominance over the Long-eared Owls. In future, with coniferous forests having reached maturity and being felled, we can expect more changes to the lifestyles and prospects of Mull’s owls and we will hope that due attention is paid to their wellbeing as land management decisions are determined. As an aside, the Snowy Owl appears in archaeological deposits in Scotland and, although we can find no formal record of it on Mull, there is tangential evidence from the late nineteenth century, cited by Witherby et al. (1952) of it being an ‘almost regular winter visitor to Shetland and frequently the Orkneys and Hebrides’. Graham never saw this bird himself, though he did have an interesting testimony from a sportsman acquaintance. Many years before (we might suppose around the 1880s) this man had seen, after some very stormy weather ‘a large, “perfectly white owl” flying about the flat sandy extremity of Iona by daylight, apparently hunting for rabbits. He had never seen anything like it before in the course of half a century’s shooting.’ Others also witnessed it, including the minister of Iona. That the possibility exists for an occasional vagrant Snowy Owl to visit Mull offers a flimsy opportunity to tell a favourite owl story. In years covering the 1980s several female Snowy Owls visited Shetland regularly and a debate ensued among naturalists as to the ethics of introducing a suitable male to encourage colonisation of the islands. In the end nature was allowed to take its course and the hoped-for breeding never took place but it had given one commentator the chance to advance the argument that ‘there is surely no great ethical problem in rectifying one of nature’s minor oversights: to wit a male owl to woo the female owls’.

Barn Owl nesting box, Dervaig

Herring Gull in Tobermory Harbour

SEVEN

In Their Element – the Seabirds ‘To watch the flight of shore birds that have swept up and down the surf lines of the continents for untold thousands of years… is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be.’ Rachel Carson, Under the Sea-Wind: A Naturalist’s Picture of Ocean Life (1941)

Behind the shipping forecast There is a particular verse form used to recite a coded description of quaint, oceanic places with elusive borders. It is of no relevance to, nor addressed to, anyone save a few free-ranging and independent people seemingly only loosely attached to the mainstream world [insert radio crackle here]: ‘Rockall, Malin: West 4 or 5. Occasional drizzle. Moderate. Hebrides: West 3 or 4 occasionally 5 later. Showers, mainly fair, good. Bailey: backing south-west 4 or 5. Moderate to good…’ Occasionally other folk chance upon the familiar cadence of the shipping forecast, perhaps in the early hours as they struggle to sleep. Though some meaning might percolate into their subconscious, the hearer will invariably find that its precise message remains tantalisingly remote, fathomable only by a few who have inherited the requisite cipher-key. The sea is an islander’s birthright. Some still work at sea. Every third or fourth home on Mull and Iona seems to own a boat, and some are seaworthy. Other vessels moulder and gently subside, a statement, a memory or a fantasy that their owner is a mariner – that he (it is usually a ‘he’) has salt in his veins and a distant horizon in his gaze. The ocean is an island’s first and best line of defence. Mull’s castles – the ancient forts of the clans at Duart, Aros, Cairnburgh and Moy, and even the ornate Victorian Torosay and Glengorm – show their faces to the sea, and in modern memory the islander’s line of battle against the coronavirus was drawn on the Sound of Mull. Just as importantly, from the earliest times, the sea has fed people.

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At one with the sea… Today, even among the initiates, not many listen to the shipping forecast. Instead, seafarers favour any number of weather ‘apps’, summoned at will to their mobile phones. For the majority, the shipping forecast might just as well be an Icelandic saga written in Old Norse. In any case, many folk are persuaded that they do not need such resources at all, relying instead upon their innate ‘oneness’ with the volatility of marine weather systems to survive at sea, a harmonious compatibility – like birds of the ocean – they might have us believe. We like to think of ourselves as a maritime species, naturally at home on the water but, compared to seabirds, that is a reckless deception. The birds’ destiny is to do more than navigate and survive. They must wrest all they can from those defences and food resources, and prosper amidst the chaotic, bleak and capricious tumult of an environment running utterly counter to our own notion of a safe, viable existence. Each species of seabird is adapted to exploit some of the most extreme conditions on Earth and, given a fair chance, they will not only thrive but live to a very good age. They do not merely understand the sea but are part of it, and some of the most redoubtable and iconic are those sometimes called the ‘pelagic birds’.

Treshnish and the open seas The Treshnish Isles, along with the Isle of Staffa, were home to people for around 4,000 years from the Bronze Age until the nineteenth century. Being of immense strategic importance in controlling the western seaboard of Scotland, they were fortified from Viking times. Now ruined, Cairnburgh Castle on the isle of Cairn na Burgh Mòr is known to have been defended for at least 500 years until the 1745 Jacobite Rebellion. By the mid-nineteenth century only the odd shieling on Treshnish may have been used seasonally by fishermen and farmers looking after the highland cattle that were grazed there. But along with, and remaining after the people, came the nesting birds.



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They are there for the same reasons that the islanders looked to the sea. Nesting seabirds are vulnerable to attack. Their homes are on the ground, in burrows, on cliff faces, and on pebble or sand beaches. On islands, assuming no presence of cats or rats, they are defended from the mainland species that would otherwise ravage them, and from there they are free to travel seaward to the replenishable food supplies that their young require. ‘Pelagic’ literally means ‘related to the open seas’. It is a term associated with a wide range of birds, many of which can use their (often broad) wingspan to stay aloft for days, or even weeks, far out in the oceans. They tend to come to land only to breed and raise their young. Their lifestyle therefore necessitates them being peculiarly adapted to a saltwater environment. Some call these the ‘true’ pelagics, and the Treshnish archipelago is particularly blessed with them.

The ‘tubenoses’ These island sanctuaries are pivotal to a web of biodiversity way beyond their immediate surrounds. For example, more than 20% (possibly up to nearly 30%) of the total British breeding population of Storm Petrels breed here. Petrels, as members of the family Procellariiformes (unflatteringly called tubenoses), exhibit one of the main characteristics of the ‘true’ pelagic. Their prominent tubiform nasal passage is a unique adaptation which serves as a ‘multi-tool’ to sustain their lifestyle. Tubenoses accumulate food reserves as musty-smelling oil in their stomach, which they can eject when threatened but also combine with oil from the preen gland to waterproof their feathers. The even application of the oil is thought to be controlled by the nostril tubes. In addition, this structure helps seabirds remove and excrete excess salt. Spending so long at sea, pelagic birds have to drink brine and take in salt water with their prey, so the ability to expel salt prevents it from building up to toxic levels. The tube is also believed to play a role in petrels being able seek out their food by smell. They quarter the waves back and forth, searching for an oily scent, then track the smell to its source, which is often waste catch from fishing

From Loch na Keal to the open sea

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boats. This technique is a valuable asset in the featureless oceans where the ability to see distances may be of little help. Comprising petrels, Manx Shearwaters and Fulmars, the tubenoses form an important Treshnish group. The number of shearwaters on the islands may be 1,000–1,500, though they are notoriously difficult to count. Like the petrels, they only appear at night, nest in burrows, and have a nesting season lasting several months. Unlike the petrels, however, they can frequently be seen during the day on calm seas around the north of Mull, often sitting in rafts of birds waiting for the winds that enable them to hunt. The Fulmar is a bird still regarded as common in the UK, though it has declined of late. However, back in the nineteenth century, when they were still expanding their range south, Henry Davenport Graham admitted to never having seen a live one on Mull. By 2018 there were an estimated 335 breeding pairs on the Treshnish Isles, 69% fewer than a 1999 estimate. Climate change is blamed in part for a decline in the abundance of prey such as sand eels and certain species of zooplankton. However, this may not be the only factor. Storm Petrels feed by skipping across the waves



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Storm Petrels: Mother Carey’s chickens

Mother Carey was a supernatural personification of rough seas and a harbinger of storms. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries she was said to be the cause of shipwrecks, and her fluttering, blackish-brown chickens – Storm Petrels or ‘Stormies’ – were thought to be the souls of dead seamen. In calm conditions Storm Petrels sit on the sea until there is sufficient wind to help them fly, at which point they confidently flick around even in the teeth of a rising gale, so it is easy to see how sailors associated them with gathering storms. They make poor chickens, however, being about the size of a Swallow. That said, the Storm Petrel’s diminutive stature belies its ability to survive. In 2002, a UK population survey suggested that a rather imprecise 21,000–34,000 breeding pairs of Storm Petrels arrive each year on Britain’s shores after wintering in the oceans of the southern hemisphere. They are only rarely seen on our coasts, spending most of the day far out in the ocean. Only at night – when they feel safe from predators – do Storm Petrels return to crevices and holes among rocks and walls to feed their young. They are, nevertheless, occasionally seen in small numbers off the islands, usually flitting bat-like just above the waves, possibly smelling out their food and picking off the surface small items such as fish, crustaceans and even zooplankton. Stormies have been monitored by the Treshnish Isles Auk Ringing Group, who have been surveying the islands’ summer birdlife annually since 1971, building up an invaluable store of knowledge. In 2019 there were over 10,000 apparently occupied nest sites and, since 1971, 15,000 petrels have been ringed and a number of ringed birds recovered. These birds are not always faithful to their original colony: in 2018, a Treshnish-ringed bird was found on west Yell, Shetland, some 545 km distant. It was over 37 years old.

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Humans – and lack of humans The Fulmar is a species that became heavily dependent upon human exploitation of fish stocks. Its population boomed because it fed on discarded offal and, more recently, the dumping at sea of non-quota fish from trawlers. Both sources of food declined with the long-term slump in the whitefish industry followed by a recent ban on the practice of quota discard. Fishing boats now have to bring excess quota fish and by-catch ashore, regardless of whether or not it has any commercial value. This is a story that defies most rules of conservation, insofar as it tells of a species that thrived on the back of human over-exploitation of nature yet is now suffering because of our attempts to restore the natural environment. In the UK, it is likely that we will have to scale down our expectation of how many of these ‘mini-albatrosses’ we will see in future. Notwithstanding the above difficulties, we should have a healthy respect for a bird that has developed the excretion of stinking stomach oil into an art form. It is not only able to regurgitate oil on demand as a rich food for its young, but will also deploy it as a particularly noxious, high-velocity weapon against predators. Fulmars have been known to spray so much oil on encroaching White-tailed Eagles as to gum up their feathers and prevent some eagles from being able to fly at all. The winsome name Fulmar is derived from two Old Norse words, fúll and már, meaning ‘foul gull’.

An honorary pelagic With short wings, designed more for underwater propulsion than elegant long-​ distance gliding, and with no nose-tube, Puffins may not have the same equipment as some pelagic birds, but either side of nesting in underground tunnels, they spend much of the year in the open ocean. Tracing them is difficult but some Treshnish birds are thought to winter in the cold, stormy embrace of the North Atlantic, with perhaps some going south to the Bay of Biscay. Their scientific name, Fratercula arctica, means ‘little friar’ or ‘little brother of the north’; this is because their black and white plumage is said to resemble the robes of monks. Like monks, Puffins live communally but are not quite as sociable as they appear: small groups apparently enjoying neighbourly chats are often ‘discussing’ territorial ownership and hierarchy. If you witness haughty, dominant and upright individuals ‘talking’ to more furtive, crouching birds in early season, you will quickly get the idea.



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The large amount of orange on a Puffin’s beak and legs emanates from concentrations of carotenoid pigments found in their food. The bright colour signals that the bird has high levels of antioxidants and a strong immune system, attributes which may help their prospects of attracting a potential mate. As well as being outrageously gaudy, a Puffin’s bill is, surprisingly, built for practicality. It is very usefully adapted to hold several fish at a time, with the bird initially using its grooved tongue and spiny palate to help grasp fish whilst continuing fishing. As an additional aid, the two mandibles are hinged so that they can be held parallel. This enables the adult to accommodate up to a dozen small fish in a row, ready to take back to their single, hungry young ‘puffling’ waiting in its burrow on land. Staffa has more than 600 apparently occupied burrows, and the Treshnish Isles about 2,600. Harvie-Brown thought ‘Puffindom’ on the Treshnish Isles in the 1890s was spreading so rapidly, their increase in numbers being observable each year, that ‘they will ere long banish other species’. Just over a century later the Staffa/Treshnish population is of global importance as Puffins have been placed on the Red List of birds at risk of extinction. Puffin on Lunga

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Underwater-flying auks Puffins are members of the auk family, four species of which breed on the Treshnish Isles, and all of which are distinguished by their ability to use their wings to ‘fly’ underwater. Black Guillemots, with their distinctive white wing patch and vivid red legs and inside mouth, were described in 1852 by Graham as ‘the commonest bird’ on Mull after gulls, although by 1892 Harvie-Brown suggested that this might have been a slight overstatement. Today, far from being the most common, Black Guillemots make up the smallest auk population, with perhaps 50 breeding individuals on Treshnish, compared to 8,000–10,000 Common Guillemots in recent years. The latter are best seen on Lunga, specifically on the famous Harp Rock, which overflows with both birds and guano. Some large rafts of Common Guillemots can also be seen around the south coast of Mull in summer, though these birds are most likely to be breeding on Colonsay. Remarkable ringing records have revealed that individuals return to the same nesting spot almost to the centimetre, with the same neighbours for noisy company, year after year, for at least 30 years in some cases.

Razorbills on Lunga



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The attributes of these smart, black and white tuxedoed birds are many, yet they are often overlooked because of their historically utilitarian role as one of the several seabird providers of eggs and feathers to Britain’s island communities, including Mull. Thus people will readily recall that for centuries, even up to the 1940s, climbers would brave huge cliffs to steal hundreds of thousands of their eggs, yet how many would know that this streamlined, delicate-looking ‘tough guy’ has been recorded as diving as deep as 180 m – without scuba gear! The last of the breeding auks here are the Razorbills. In the nineteenth century they were ‘abundant in all suitable places in the south of Mull’, along with the guillemots. Less common today there may be 600–700 on Lunga and Sgeir a’ Chaisteil. A striking bird to look at, ringers who have had them in the hand testify to the fact that they are well named and reluctant to let go once they have trapped a finger in their powerful beak. Little Auks are only occasionally reported in the sea lochs of Mull, most notably after severe storms at sea during autumn or winter. They are worth mentioning though, if only to keep up with the activities of the irrepressible Maclaine of Lochbuie. The Little Auk was scarce enough in the 1890s to have attracted the attention of Mull’s inveterate collector of little-known species, who sought one out, shot it and added it to his assemblage of stuffed rarities.

The gangsters in the north Before leaving the Treshnish Isles and the northern seas around Mull, deserving of mention are two species which, although small in numbers, pack a fearsome punch. These are the Great and Arctic Skuas. Whilst the Arctic Skua is not a breeding species here, it is seen around Treshnish and occasionally offshore around Mull itself, notably to the north of the island and down the length of the Sound of Mull. Some of these birds may be from breeding grounds on Coll. The Great Skua, on the other hand, breeds in small numbers on the Treshnish Isles and has, in the recent past, been reported as breeding near Caliach Point on Mull. These are both marauding species given to kleptoparasitism, mugging other seabirds with extreme violence to make them give up the catch that they are often carrying to their own chicks. The skuas’ sinister patrolling manner, seeking out likely victims, can be slightly unnerving to watch, particularly when the observer is armed with the knowledge that they may go further than to just scare a bird into giving up its food. The sight of a skua taking a bird to the ground and killing it in a flurry of cries and feathers is the epitome of ‘nature red in tooth and claw’.

Gannet over Croggan

We don’t know what we don’t know The Little Auk is one example of the many bird species probably under-​ reported around Mull. In 1986, an authoritative source of birds in Scotland omitted Mull from a list of important wintering sites for the Slavonian Grebe. Increased monitoring of the species since has suggested that Loch na Keal may be one of the five most important sites in Britain for this species, and more intensive surveillance could well show an even higher population. This is a bird that emerges splendidly in spring as they lose their monochrome winter plumage and adopt an exotic rusty-red neck and golden crest-type head decoration before departing for the summer (if to Iceland rather than Slavonia). Increased observation of these fine birds could be very rewarding, albeit they are most often seen through a telescope away in the middle of the loch. Mull is a relatively large island with a small population, and monitoring wildlife is a difficult proposition. Many species probably come and go without ever receiving attention, and our knowledge of others is sketchy. Among these are the small numbers of Common, Surf and Velvet Scoters, Greater Scaup and Little Gull. Even the Gannet, seen in varying numbers in the summer, is little understood around the Mull coast despite its ostentatious plummeting fishing technique. We know that the nearest Gannet nesting grounds are on St Kilda (to the north) and on Ailsa Craig (to the south), and Mull’s visiting birds probably originate from



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both. Research has been undertaken in recent years, tracking satellite-tagged birds in the UK, which has revealed fascinating long-distance travel patterns throughout the British Isles. Hopefully, this is one bird that may give up more secrets in the near future.

Simply ducks Scaup and scoters are interesting, if scarce, species of marine duck. Indeed, most of Mull’s ducks can be described as being ‘worthy’ to birders, if not prolific by the standards of many places. The majority qualify as seabirds, insofar as most of the few species that are seen on freshwater lochs are more likely to be found on saltwater stretches. Breeding species include Eider and Red-breasted Merganser, which nest in reasonable numbers, plus Goosander and Shelduck, which breed occasionally. The most ubiquitous is the Mallard which will often be seen in winter around small flocks of visiting Teal and Wigeon.

Designed for speed and comfort, is the Eider the Rolls Royce of ducks? The chunky, short-winged and not particularly streamlined Eider is not only Britain’s heaviest duck, but it has an unlikely claim to fame: it has been credited with being the world’s fastest bird in normal level flight, having been timed at 76 km/h. In English we used to call a feather quilt an ‘eiderdown’, a word that has gone out of fashion in favour of the French word ‘duvet’ – which means, well, ‘eiderdown’. If you sleep in a soft, warm duvet you will know how important ‘life’s little comforts’ are. You will also have something in common with the eggs of Eider ducks, which are coddled in a nest lined with the same downy feathers, selflessly plucked from her breast by the female Eider. Sadly, the ducklings do not get to enjoy such pleasures for very long as Mum leads them to the safety of the sea soon after hatching, but they are well cared for by their ‘nannies’ (or non-breeding females), who team up and share the work of rearing groups of chicks together. Eiders dive for shellfish and, observed feeding beneath clear shallow water at the edge of lochs, surprise with their underwater speed and agility. Up to 200 have created a diverting spectacle on occasions as they have dived and surfaced in unison at a mussel farm on Loch Scridain.

Eider ducks on Loch Scridain

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Goldeneye can crop up all over, but only in small numbers. They have a reputation for feeding at sewage outfalls, but on Mull a small group sometimes stays for long periods through the winter at the nutrient-rich outfall from the Knock fish hatchery at Loch na Keal. Though not often heard in winter its call is described as ‘loud and unnerving’. and its Latin name, Bucephala clangula roughly translates as the ‘clanging bull’s head’ – it has a slightly bumpy head shape.

The loonatic fringe Three species of the family of divers, known as ‘loons’ in North America, can be found scattered anywhere. The most populous is a winter visitor, the Great Northern Diver. As recently as 2012, this species was described as most commonly found off Orkney, Shetland and the Outer Hebrides. Continuing recording has now demonstrated that Mull’s importance has been considerably undervalued and the island has been elevated to one of the most important areas for Great Northern Diver in Britain. Once thought to be the oldest surviving bird species, feathers of the Great Northern Diver lack the interlocking barbules of most ‘modern’ birds, possibly helping them to reduce buoyancy by releasing trapped air as they dive. A red pigment in their eyes equips them to see underwater and, unlike most birds, further adaptation for diving comes from the fact that some of their bones are solid. The extra weight enables them to dive to a stunning 60 m for food, which can be fish but, around Mull, is often crabs. Despite being heavy, they are good flyers, migrating for the winter to Mull from Iceland, Greenland and possibly Canada. However, once here they are rarely seen in the air, leading to a former belief among fishermen that they were incapable of flight. A mysterious bird in island culture, another story told how they secretly laid their eggs and hatched their chicks underwater. The Great Northern Diver’s muted grey winter garb can be a little underwhelming, but between April and mid-May the ‘ugly duckling’ turns into a magnificently plumaged bird, a riot of black and white hatching and stripes – a visual treat to be enjoyed briefly before the birds leave for its northern breeding territories. A handful of non-breeding immature birds often remain around Mull, occasionally being seen on sea lochs throughout the summer. Black-throated Divers also appear throughout the year, but more sporadically on passage and not staying to breed. Red-throated Divers are present on and off throughout the year but only in small numbers. However, this species does occasionally nest on remote inland lochans where pairs raise their young whilst travelling back and forth to the coast for food. Like all divers, they are clumsy on the ground where they nest, and highly vulnerable to predation and disturbance,



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Bun a’ bhuachaille – ‘the herdsman of the tidal races’ The Great Northern Diver may be the unheralded and unlikely hero of Mull’s seabird story. By British standards they are a substantial sea duck that can weigh more than 4.5 kg. On wintering grounds (as in Britain), they are very placid birds. However, Great Northern Divers undergo a character change on their summer breeding grounds. In territorial disputes over nest sites they are known to dive underwater and to surface beneath an unsuspecting rival like a high-speed missile, sharp beak leading the way. Predators are not out of bounds either: in North America at least one Bald Eagle has been stabbed to death, speared through the heart by a diver’s beak in retribution for taking its chick. The wintering population of Great Northern Divers in Britain is imprecisely reported as between 2,500 and 4,400 birds. Mull is poorly recorded but is home to at least several hundred. Their days are spent in solitude, each bird having its own hunting territory at sea, but every evening a rarely witnessed and remarkable event takes place – and one that is a speciality of Mull. The divers swim to communal roosts where, on a good day, spectacular gatherings of up to 200 birds can be seen. An increase in recording in recent years has shown that, of eight internationally important sites in Britain for these divers, at least three are on Mull (Loch Tuath, Loch na Keal and Loch Scridain), though monitoring of other lochs, particularly Loch Buie, may well enhance that number.

Male Great Northern Diver

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so the success rate of any breeding may well be low. Nevertheless, their presence on the sea lochs is welcome and, hearing their strange, unearthly call echoing across Loch Buie evokes the wildness that is the essence of Mull’s association with the sea.

… and so to gulls This chapter could not end without mention of the ubiquitous gulls. Leaving them to the end is perhaps not the best way to bring these wonderful birds into the spotlight, so it should be emphasised that they are a much neglected and unappreciated family. Mull has a broad enough range of species to satisfy most people and close study may even be rewarded with interesting rarities. Black-headed Gulls are very evident in winter when, annoyingly, they do not have dark hoods, but nesting is sparse at best these days and certainly does not occur in the vast, noisy and perpetually bustling colonies that other places enjoy. Common Gulls are widespread breeders but in decline and struggling to maintain a foothold in many of their preferred nesting areas, as a result of the twin threats of Mink predation and disturbance by people. These are also problems for the two breeding terns, Arctic Tern and Common Tern. Although wheeling clouds of both species may be observed around places such as the Sounds of Iona and Mull, the once-large Mull colonies now tend to be dispersed away from the main islands to the safety of isolated skerries and islets. Mink predation has taken a terrible toll on these delightful birds, and it is heartbreaking to consider the extraordinary global voyages that they make each year only to fail to successfully raise progeny. Both are among the world’s great travellers, but Arctic Terns have laid claim to the title of migration record holders. In the space of a year one bird has been tracked as journeying an unimaginable 96,000 km, more than any other species on Earth. In winter, the occasional ‘white-winged’ gull puts in an appearance, with both Iceland Gull and Glaucous Gull quite likely to join a feast of carrion, particularly if a cetacean carcass happens to have been washed ashore. Mull also has a handful of breeding Lesser Black-backed Gulls on the Treshnish Isles, and a more widely dispersed and larger number of resident Greater Black-backed Gulls. Although this species is much maligned, on account of it eating other birds’ eggs and chicks, it is nevertheless impressive. The Kittiwake, a regular sight nesting around Lunga’s Harp Rock and other islands, is many people’s favourite gull. This may be due to its pelagic temperament (it stays at sea for long periods), its graceful flight, or perhaps its constant call to remind people not to forget its name: ‘ki-tti-wake, ki-tti-wake’.



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Slightly less affection is assigned to the mandatory Herring Gulls that attend the fish and chip van next to the Fishermen’s Pier in Tobermory. They have been tarred with the same brush as the gulls vilified as seaside muggers and thugs, engendering fear up and down the country and even causing David Cameron, as the then Prime Minister, to call for Britain to engage in a ‘big conversation’ about the emerging threat of these confident birds. Tobermory’s gulls tend to be a little more genteel, so it is actually rewarding to spend time with them over lunch. How often do any of us get the opportunity to sit with a large, wild bird and really study its features at close quarters? This gull’s eyes, beaks, feet and plumage are as exotic as any, so why not take advantage of this rare intimacy? Perhaps then the Herring Gull might reclaim its forgotten place in our own fond memory. Who remembers this so-called miscreant as the wistful accompanying vocalist to the evocative tune ‘By the Sleepy Lagoon’ – the theme tune to BBC Radio 4’s programme Desert Island Discs?

Young Iceland Gull, Gribun

Fighting Herons, Dervaig

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Extraordinary Landbirds ‘The sound’s coming from a patch of cow parsley at our feet, and at such close quarters it’s a much lower, slower sound, a real smoky bar room rasp. Crex-crex, crex-crex, he goes, more Tom Waites than Tom Jones, but hugely sexy to female corncrakes.’ Kathleen Jamie, Findings (2005)

Flights of fancy ‘A flock of Golden Plover went up like a puff of gunsmoke. The whole flock streamed low, then slowly rose, like a single golden wing.’ Everybody sees birds, but each of us experiences them differently… The late J. A. Baker has stubbornly resisted becoming a household name, yet he bequeathed to us some of the most beautiful and intuitive of all nature writing. His description of Short-eared Owls ‘soothing’ out of the gorse, ‘hushing the air with the tiptoe touch of their soft and elegant wings’, captures perfectly the essence of a bird that, once spotted, is impossible to relinquish sight of until it has ‘soothed’ back into the landscape. Baker intuitively sensed the way owls are perfectly fitted to their surroundings. When we reflect deeply on the natural world – rather than simply standing outside it and watching it scroll past – animals seem so much better adapted, secure and in tune with their environment than ourselves. Compared to many species, people have evolved impressively, yet remained rooted. We are cumbersome and anchored to dry land. Birds are a visible and vociferous reminder that there are elements of nature for which we are not adapted and with which we are unable to fully engage. Perhaps we are envious of them. We are certainly drawn to them and instinctively observe them. Not necessarily to study them in the sense that ornithologists might do, but in an everyday way. In contrast, birds span our world and theirs at will, by virtue of their ability and freedom to fly. It is easy to sense them slipping in and out of human business, and they may be our closest connection with the natural world. Is that why many people’s relationship with wild nature often begins with birds?

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Less is more It is probably the earliest encounters – the polychrome flash of a Goldfinch or characterful tilt of a Robin’s head – that hooks us on birds. In all likelihood, it was our splendid but familiar garden birds which sparked that initial awe and wonder. Only later would the transient, unexpected and vagrant species that occasionally permeate our local environment feed our appetite for more exotic encounters and the excitement of sharing those encounters with others. In recent years Mull has been increasingly visited by Little Egrets, an occasional Great White Egret and even a Cattle Egret. They are avidly reported, splendid and unusual birds that invariably create a ripple of interest. However, they are now of insufficient rarity to persuade the world to drop everything to witness them. On 23 June 2019, a wildlife photographer visiting Iona took what may have been the picture of a lifetime. It was of a Great Spotted Cuckoo. This is an attractive bird (is there an ‘unattractive’ bird?) easily found and photographed in its home range in Africa and around the Mediterranean, where its conservation status is of ‘least concern’. Nevertheless, four days later, The Times newspaper reported that ‘birdwatchers from near and far were heading for the Hebrides after the first Scottish sighting of a Great Spotted Cuckoo in 60 years’. The fact that by this time it was probably gone, and one might not be seen for another 60 years, only added to its prestige. Little Egret



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Perhaps this says something about how we connect with nature. It is said that ‘familiarity breeds contempt’, but the full quote, from the Roman philosopher Apuleius, ends ‘while rarity wins admiration’. It is unfair to suggest that people who observe birds are contemptuous of common or reliably appearing species, but in the demand-and-supply world of ‘birding’, scarcity is often the most admired characteristic – the preferred currency and measure of value. The thrill of witnessing a mega rarity seems irresistible and something of which enthusiasts dream. We are all capable of having our head turned on occasions, but there is a paradox. The highest value is accorded to wild birds, but not the ones observed in their natural range – a bird frequently has to be displaced, stranded or even uncoupled from others of its species, perhaps irretrievably, before it is awarded the highest accolades.

The rarity paradox Without detracting from the pleasure gained by seeing something both surprising and of wide interest, if it is an end in itself and the vagrant bird is not, say, an endangered endemic species, or otherwise of local interest, it has little direct association with the natural history of the place where it has appeared. After all, birds usually do not breed in these circumstances, they are not present in sufficient numbers to have any impact upon the local food supply, and they do not compete with indigenous species. In the last decade or so, there have been at least 50–60 vagrant and locally very rare species of bird recorded on Mull and surrounding islands. They were each of real interest, seen less than a handful of times, but most are not likely to return any time soon. If one’s aim is to witness the next appearance on Mull of a Glossy Ibis, Buff-breasted Sandpiper, Pied-billed Grebe or Bufflehead (as recorded near Oban) it will be an unlikely, though not impossible, ambition. However, maintaining contact with what is really important, and of highest value, to the island’s wildlife mix involves focusing intently upon on, and maybe getting a little excited about, some of the 140 or so ‘ordinary’ species of birds that regularly breed or overwinter. Mull’s home-grown talent provides exceptional opportunities to build a relationship with nature; to get closer to it, perhaps even to connect with it, however briefly. The accumulation of the island’s indigenous species are the local heroes of its natural history, and it is worth reflecting on the fact that if an odd one of Mull’s ‘ordinary’ bird species were one day to turn up unexpectedly on the other side of the world, birders there would be beside themselves with excitement.

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When is a bird not a bird? Mull’s landbirds can be categorised in a number of ways, but by habitat is a good place to start. Scrubland and the edge of woodland offer encounters with a bird that sometimes visits gardens, but more usually is seen when it leaves the undergrowth and strolls casually across the road, oblivious to onrushing traffic. This is the Pheasant. An odd bird to focus attention upon, one might think. Perhaps so, but a convergence of events surrounding the Pheasant on Mull reveals a lot about natural history, our interpretation of biodiversity in a given place and time, and the way in which we impose human interventions and rationality upon nature. Mull’s inveterate wildlife importer, Colonel Greenhill Gardyne, introduced Pheasants to Glen Forsa and elsewhere on Mull around 1850. Harvie-Brown described the Glen Forsa birds as ‘thriving particularly well’ following their introduction, which is to say that they were breeding naturally, just like the Fallow Deer introduced by Gardyne at the same time. Today the descendants of those deer are enthusiastically greeted and much loved. Other highly appreciated species, such as Crossbills and Siskins, have been on Mull for a much shorter period than the Pheasants, having been enticed onto the island by the planting of ‘alien’ spruce forests. More than 350,000 Pheasants now breed in the wild in Scotland, many of them assimilated into the environment of Mull, yet the applause for them is strangely muted. Each year, 35 million Pheasants are released in Britain, some on estates on Mull, to provide a quarry for shooting parties. The ecological impact of these farmed-bird Doing something interesting? Pheasant on the shoreline, Pennyghael.



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releases on native wild species is very significant and unpopular in conservation circles, and it seems that the ‘feral’ birds will forever carry the stigma of association with the hand-reared birds. Apparently because of this connection, one of the largest, most colourful and characterful, though admittedly slow-witted, of birds is treated with disdain. A letter to the journal British Birds as far back as 1952 nicely illustrates this. It describes a Pheasant being stranded on a rock 20 yards from shore which, having allowed itself to be washed off by the incoming tide, floated around for a while, possibly to consider its circumstance, and then suddenly took off and flew to land. The correspondent, rather too po-faced one feels, commented that ‘this is probably the only known case of a Pheasant doing something interesting’. It is difficult to imagine the Pheasant’s exotic plumage being surpassed among Britain’s avifauna, so will there be some point in the future when it will qualify as an ‘extraordinary’ species? Perhaps not, but that will not change the fact that the feral Pheasant cannot be ignored as an integral part of Mull’s ecological jigsaw.

Roding in the gloaming The Woodcock is a relatively common woodland bird on Mull, but has the kind of following of which the Pheasant can only dream. The bad news for the Woodcock is that part of that following comes from the shooting fraternity. With its exceptional, variegated, rusty-brown and rufous camouflage and being described as lying ‘trance-like’ in undergrowth during the day, it is hard to find without the aid of dogs to point to it or flush it out. Nevertheless, in the winter of 1887–8 a Mr W. J. Watts of Devonshire reported shooting 400 birds on the Ross of Mull. In daylight the Woodcock is reluctant to fly until danger is almost on top of it but, at dawn and dusk between April and June, the male finally shows himself, coming into the twilight to perform a strange, otherworldly, ‘roding’ display to attract a female. As the sun starts to fade, he flies above the tree canopy with fast beating wings whilst uttering a distinctive croaking followed by a brief high-pitched call. What lady could resist? The Snipe is related to the Woodcock and, though not a woodland bird, displays a similar behaviour, skulking in boggy peatlands, ditches and around pools, once again emerging most prominently towards dusk to hunt for worms, insects and small amphibians. Mull supports a surprising number of Snipe, but they are most usually seen in the car headlights as wraithlike apparitions rising from the verge of the road. To see them in daylight, try the marsh at the head of Loch Cuin, inland on the south side of Loch na Keal, around Lochdon or on the Ross at Fidden. It is also worth quietly walking the roads and keeping an eye on the damp drainage channels to the side.

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Like the Woodcock, the Snipe has a distinctive courtship display. However, instead of roding, it performs a ‘drumming’ flight, creating a sound that, if it resembles a drum at all, would be akin to a muted snare drum roll. The mysterious sound comes from very strong outer tail feathers evolved to withstand the strain of vibrations. They are much stiffer than the inner tail feathers, with strong hooks joining the feathers to prevent them breaking at high wind speeds. When the bird dives very quickly through the sky, these unique adaptations make its tail vibrate and produce the characteristic whirring noise. Drumming can be used as a territorial display or as an aggressive statement towards an intruder, but courtship is its main function. It is worth seeking Snipe out on boggy wetlands in May or June around dusk to hear it. Once witnessed, the display’s strange eeriness will not be forgotten. Sunbathing Snipe, Caliach



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Standing out from the crowd The contrast between the forest-floor-dwelling, mostly silent Woodcock, with some of the head-in-the-air ‘woodland minstrels’ is fairly marked. The former provides mystery and keeps a night-time presence, whereas less secretive woodland birds tend to wake at dawn and make up for their diminutive size by providing a wonderful choral backdrop to the spring and summer. The Song Thrush, Blackbird, Robin and particularly Willow Warbler and Wren are common, as they are throughout the UK, but play their parts in Mull’s dawn music sessions like seasoned orchestra pros. The ‘mighty’ little Wren is even peculiarly adapted with membranes that can utilise almost all the air in its lungs for singing, plus an organ called a syrinx in its throat, which creates a resonating chamber. This maximises the Wren’s considerable vocal talents to the extent that, weight for weight, it is ten times louder than a cockerel and able to sing two notes at once. Visitors will hear a lot of this bird. In comparison, a few choristers are less songsters than disruptive chatterers on the back row. These include three of the British true tit species (Coal, Great and Blue Tit), plus the bird that is a true tit in name only – the Long-tailed Tit – and others such as Chaffinch and Greenfinch. The finches seem not to have succumbed to the Trichomoniasis parasite on Mull to the same extent as some mainland populations and can appear in great numbers. Wren hunting for bugs on Calgary Pier

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There are a few summer migrants that are less likely to make their presence felt, but are no less accomplished performers for all that. These include the cheerful, relatively common and happy-to-entertain Whitethroat, whilst among birds that are less common but can be seen in the right habitat are the Spotted Flycatcher and Wood Warbler. The Common Redstart is a marvellous find in more open birch woodland and old oak woods. Recent studies have shown that its song which, to some ears, sounds like a Chaffinch warming up, can actually contain phrases that mimic up to 50 different species of birds in the space of an hour. It really does ‘start-le’, in more ways than simply flying up to a branch with a flash of its reddish rump – ‘start’ being an old word for a tail. Lovely as these and numerous other woodland species are, the Blackcap is extra special, because it appears to be breaking completely new ground. Traditionally a summer migrant that heads for Spain and beyond for the winter, it is becoming more abundant on Mull. For lack of a better expression, it is one of nature’s gossips, making up for what it lacks in distinctive colouring by constantly singing its heart out in such a charming way that it has been called the ‘northern Nightingale’. The Blackcap is causing a fuss because it is increasingly being seen during winter in Britain, including on Mull. It was believed initially that climate change was persuading it to stay over and become a winter resident, which may in part be the case. Groundbreaking research, however, has shown that many wintering birds hail from a different migrant group altogether and, astonishingly given the timescales involved, may even be evolving into a new subspecies. Male Blackcap



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What’s going on? As recently as the late 1980s, some German Blackcaps discovered that the British public put vast amounts of seeds out in the winter, so they started to come over each year in increasing numbers to reap the harvest, rather than head off to the Mediterranean with others of their kind. This was interesting, but then they took it further. They were found to be quickly evolving shorter, rounder wings than the British birds that went south to winter: with less far to fly, they no longer needed the longer pointed wings. Now their wings give them more manoeuvrability instead. Their beaks are also becoming narrower and longer, allowing them to take advantage of the seeds and other winter food types on offer. Remarkable in itself, this rapid evolution may also hold pointers for a species’ ability to react quickly to environmental change, perhaps indicating a survival response against climate change.

The bird in a burn Beyond the woodlands, in the meadows and mires, and around burns, live quite different species, notable for the fact that they almost all nest on or quite close to the ground. The colourful Grey Wagtail is often seen around the burns, the Pied Wagtail is ubiquitous and the Sedge Warbler breeds locally. Probably the most intriguing, however, is the bird that also has the most aliases: the Water Ouzel, Water Hen, Gobha dubh nan allt (in Gaelic) or Dipper, as it is now known. With kingfishers rare and not breeding on the island, Dippers on Mull were historically also called ‘King’s Fishers’. This fine name did nothing to stop them being widely treated as vermin in Victorian times, due mainly to unfounded charges of devouring trout and salmon spawn. In 1831 The Maclaine of Lochbuie was offering two pence per head for them to be killed, though a more enlightened Duke of Argyll conserved them on his estates. Thankfully, they have survived to provide pleasure to anyone who delights in the exotic and improbable. The Dipper’s unique and enviable skill is to walk along the bottom of swift-flowing streams and rivers, catching insects as they wash past. Among British landbirds, this feat is unique to the Dipper, because it alone is equipped for sub-aqua work, with eyes that can see under water, nostril flaps that keep the water out and the ability to store high levels of oxygen in their blood, which enables them to stay submerged. Who could fail to marvel at a white-breasted Blackbird lookalike walking under water? Nature really does weave magic.

Although the Dipper can breed anywhere along riverbanks, a favourite way of hiding its nest is to build it behind the curtain of a waterfall. In 2014 this pair of Dippers nested behind the upper waterfall at Aros Park. They successfully fledged four chicks.



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Mistaken identity? One of the anomalies to come out of climate change is that whilst many places will lose bird species in the future as their habitats and feeding ranges change, Mull is likely to have a net gain as birds relocate northwards to milder latitudes. The Grasshopper Warbler is one such species, found increasingly abundantly around scrubby open spaces. In the summer of 2020, climate change may have played a part in a rash of Nightjars being reported. Nightjars, the fabled ‘goatsuckers’ said to drink milk from goats, were quite common on Mull in the nineteenth century but thought to have last bred around 1970. However, rumours of their presence in certain places persisted, and in 2020 reports came in of them calling around the north of the island. At the same time Grasshopper Warblers were being heard in the north, and the reeling call that they throw out at dusk and after nightfall may have been mistaken for the Nightjars that few islanders would have heard before (although the warbler’s call is thinner and higher-pitched than the Nightjar’s). Hopefully, the identifications will prove to have been correct such that the Nightjar really is returning. Only monitoring of likely territories in the future will reveal the truth. Grasshopper Warbler

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Prized pies The Lapwing (‘Peewit’) is also a bird to reflect upon, though for the opposite reason. Although widespread on coarse meadows all over Mull and therefore giving an impression of a robust presence, it is in serious decline with numbers on breeding territories having fallen steadily. Lapwings are members of the plover family, which Victorians delighted in eating in plover pie. Plover eggs were also highly prized and easy to collect, so numbers plummeted only to rise again after a decline in collecting. However, changing farming practices on the mainland have removed much of the rough grassland that the Lapwing relies on, meaning that it now sits on the Red List of Birds of Conservation Concern. Whatever is happening elsewhere, there is a fear that predation of eggs and chicks by a ‘perfect storm’ of Mink, Ferrets, feral cats, Hen Harriers, the ubiquitous Hooded Crows and Ravens may be playing a part in Lapwings’ decline on Mull. This is a charismatic bird, whose swirling, plunging flight, vibrant iridescent colours and dashing crest would be sorely missed. It has had a tough existence and deserves some respite. Juvenile Lapwing having a paddle



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The ‘Bread-and-butter Bird’ Goldfinches, Starlings, Lesser Redpoll, the noisy and uplifting Skylark, and Twite all scatter with joy and abandon, like blown leaves across the landscape, whilst Stonechats and Whinchats nonchalantly show off from low perches, but what we might think of as the ‘Bread-and-butter Bird’ is the fabulous and utterly underrated Meadow Pipit. In birders’ shorthand, they are known as ‘Mippits’, a linguistic device that fails to show them in the same dynamic light as it does the Rock Pipit or ‘Rockit’. It is true that they are nondescript out in the open landscape, but ‘fabulous’ in the way they serve the island so well by sustaining a host of other species. The Meadow Pipit provides the soundtrack to the open spaces of the island, appearing everywhere from shore to mountainside. In the breeding season it has a fluttering display flight followed by a characteristic parachute descent (although be warned: other pipits can do this too). Sited on the ground, its grassy nest is substantial enough to accommodate five eggs – or one large chick when the Cuckoo comes calling, because one of the Meadow Pipit’s burdens is to be foster parent of choice for the Cuckoo. Meanwhile, Hen Harriers, Merlins, Buzzards, Peregrines, Ravens, owls, carnivorous mammals and more prey upon Meadow Pipits to such an extent that they sit alongside voles as a victim at the very heart of Mull’s complex food web. It is little wonder that this bird takes flight easily in front of walkers. The problem that may await other species which have become largely dependent upon it is that its numbers have declined by almost 50% in the last 50 years.

Male Stonechat

Young Meadow Pipit

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Wild Mull The fear na féill pàraig – Wheatear

The object of great affection, the Wheatear is a small bird with a big personality. On Mull it is as likely to be found close to the shoreline as up on the mountains, the males using prominent rocks from which to sing and display. According to Carmichael in his Carmina Gadelica, Fear na Féill Pàraig or Padruig means the ‘bird of the feast of St Patrick’ because the Wheatear first appears each year around 17 March, making it one of Mull’s earliest-arriving summer visitors. Other sources suggest that this name is also bestowed upon the Stonechat, but it seems to fit the wholly migratory Wheatear better. That said, Carmichael can be an unreliable source on occasions: he also reports ‘reliable’ people speaking of Wheatears hibernating or lying dormant during winter, and he recounts several instances of numbers of seemingly dead birds, found preserved in dykes and hollows in the cold turf, becoming active after being warmed. He records that ‘people from distant places came to see the strange phenomenon’, although he concedes that ‘ornithologists are not agreed on this point’. Excellent as Carmichael is as a source of Gaelic history and folklore, more reliably we know that Mull’s breeding birds mostly leave here around early September to winter in sub-Saharan Africa. In spring and autumn, their number is complemented by passage migrant Wheatears of a subspecies that breed in Greenland. These transitory visitors are difficult to differentiate, but are a little bulkier, slightly longer legged, and likely to show richer apricot/rufous underparts. The larger size of the Greenland birds may help them to store fat for their cross-Atlantic migrations, with some birds covering more than 1,500 km before making landfall and then progressing south to Africa. Both races have a distinctive white rump, which is best seen in flight. Forbes, in 1909, cryptically suggested that ‘its name arises from arriving or being more in evidence when wheat is in the ear’. Put bluntly, Forbes was propagating a falsehood arising from efforts by the Victorians to clean up its name. ‘Wheatear’ is actually a corruption of ‘white-arse’. Male Wheatear



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The Highland game Going higher into the mountains, food becomes scarce and the climate becomes harsher. In summer there are a few Golden Plover on nesting territories, the bubbling call of the odd Curlew might rise and fall on the wind, and the coarsethroated Raven reminds one of who is really in control of that crag over yonder. In winter, however, it is a different story. The mountains are where some of the softest-looking tough guys hang out, and although they are nowadays present in small numbers, they are the very essence of the Highlands. Known still as ‘game’ birds, the Red Grouse and Ptarmigan are no longer hunted on Mull, except by their implacable nemesis, the Golden Eagle. They are only referred to here as ‘tough guys’ in acknowledgement of their capacity for surviving in the kind of winter environment that most animals shun, that can bring Red Deer to their knees, and of which otherwise only the Mountain Hare seems tolerant. In the mid-nineteenth century, Red Grouse were revered as being a truly wild bird to be hunted, and much studied and discussed as a result. A certain Mr Smellie Watson (no sniggering at the back!) pronounced on individual differences in size and Harvie-Brown remarked upon differences in colour between Mull’s birds and, for example, those of the Outer Hebrides. These differences may have resulted from birds being imported in an attempt to keep the stock numbers sustainable, as happened when inveterate shooter Mr W.J. Watts introduced birds from Yorkshire to Mull around 1887. The problem for the grouse is that they predominately feed upon heather, which is prone to being swamped by grasses and Bracken if not subject to appropriate grazing or burning. The low numbers of Red Grouse nowadays are probably restricted to the north end of the island, yet they seem to endure.

Male Red Grouse, Dervaig to Torloisk (Mountain) road

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Similarly, the Ptarmigan on Mull is restricted to the remotest mountains and little is known of its population numbers, but they are not high. That being said, HarvieBrown was predicting their extinction on Mull well over 130 years ago, so there is hope of them continuing for some while. Writing in 1909, Forbes provided as good a description as any, saying: This fine bird is as ‘Highland as peats’ and frequents the tops of the highest available hills; its size is about that of grouse, of a light grey colour, in winter pure white. It is a very shy and timid bird, but stupid to excess; it has been named ‘lagopus’ [after the order ‘Lagomorpha’, which includes hares and rabbits] because it has a foot or leg like a hare, being covered or feathered far down. The winter plumage has evolved to act as camouflage in the snow against predators. The problem is that snowfalls have become fewer and lighter of late, so instead of acting as camouflage the white now stands out as a target. Unsurprisingly, the Ptarmigan continues to be found in the diet of Golden Eagles.

Beachcombing Many of the island’s finest landbirds stay predominantly at the water’s edge, and there is no bad time to reiterate a warning that birds of the water margins are extremely vulnerable to disturbance by free-ranging dogs, most particularly during the nesting season. Though not a ground-nesting species, one likely to complain vociferously and hoarsely when disturbed is the Grey Heron. They stand out as much for their size as their statuesque occupation of half the bays on the island. They are much underrated, not least for their ability to look imperious and controlling one day, but hunched and miserable the next.

Heron: just about anywhere on Mull…

Pair of Oystercatchers flying across Loch Cuin

However, the most obvious of the shorebirds is the Oystercatcher, the bird that at least one set of small children know as ‘Carrot Nose’. The authors have neither seen nor heard of one eating an oyster, although Oystercatchers do eat smaller shellfish as well as worms and insect larvae, which must collectively furnish a good diet, as they have been known to live for over 40 years. Landbirds they may be, but Henry Davenport Graham tells an interesting story of seeing a whole flock alighting out at sea and proceeding to swim around as a group. Unusual as it is, this swimming phenomenon has been photographed on numerous occasions, and the author can testify to seeing Redshank doing the same on Mull. One of the features of shoreline birds and waders is the ease with which they occupy the same feeding territories, each taking its meal from a different niche. Some will be taking small insects, others molluscs, some worms, others fish and crustaceans and so on. This niche-feeding is a product of subtle or significant differences in beak length and power, leg length, agility, speed and other physical adaptations. Curlews and their smaller cousins Whimbrels (which stop for a while on Mull during spring and autumn migrations), stand out in this respect, using their extraordinary, long, curved beaks to probe the mud more deeply than most. Curlew, Pennyghael

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Like Lapwings, Curlews seem to be present everywhere on Mull and yet are on the ‘Red List’ for their general decline elsewhere. The Curlew is a member of the large family of sandpipers (Scolopacidae), which includes the aforementioned Snipe and Woodcock. However, it is quite different, both in looks and personality from the island’s Common Sandpiper, which returns to breed as early as March, announcing its presence with constant bobbing and a high-pitched ‘tsee tsee tsee tsee’. To illustrate the point about feeding behaviour, these two members of the sandpiper family can happily feed over exactly the same territory, with the Curlew taking its food from deep below the surface and the Common Sandpiper picking up insects, worms and crustaceans from the surface. Perhaps the star of the niche-feeding show, however, is the Turnstone. This is not simply because it literally can turn stones, sometimes as big as itself, to reveal food that other birds cannot reach, but because of the extraordinary nature of their diet. There is almost nothing that Turnstones will not try as they move as a group, like locusts, over the seashore. Cocker and Mabey (2005) provide a wonderful menu that Turnstone are known to have sampled, including raisins, carrion, gull excrement, dead fish, cloves of garlic and more, culminating in a small flock devouring a whole bar of Lifebuoy soap. Were they not such charmers and so smartly turned out, people might recoil from this, but really this shorebird is one of nature’s extraordinary eccentricities.

And so to Crex There are Water Rails around the island, and the odd Moorhen is seen on the Ross occasionally, but the star of the rail family in the Hebrides is undoubtedly the Corncrake. This is a bird that somehow manages to retain an aura of mystique – and one that goes back several centuries. In 1695, Martin Martin was able to report, after his tour of the islands, that ‘the natives say it lives by the water, and under the ice in winter and spring’. For some reason, Corncrakes are always described as secretive and mysterious. However, it is inconceivable that any animal with such a loud and constant call – the unique ‘crex-crex crex-crex’ sound of a thumbnail running down a comb or, as some might say after a sleepless night, a drill being applied to the head – would ever be secretive. Its voice can carry hundreds of metres, inviting people to come and seek it out – so is it secretive or just playing a game? It is more a case of a show-off just happening to prefer nesting in long vegetation, especially Yellow Irises, where it can be heard but not seen. However, some inhabitants of Iona will testify that it is almost as likely to stand on a doorstep under a bedroom window, shouting day and night, as to hide itself away, at least in the early summer.



Extraordinary Landbirds Table 8.1  Numbers of singing Corncrake on Iona and Mull 1978–2020 Adapted from Wotton, S.R., Eaton, M., Ewing, S.R. and Green, R.E. (2015) The increase in the Corncrake Crex crex population of the United Kingdom has slowed. Bird Study 62: 486–97. Post-2014 data from Emily Wilkins (Mull and Iona Ranger Service).

Year

Iona

Mull, Staffa & Treshnish

1978

25

2

1988

3

3

2003

24

2

2004

24

9

2005

29

10

2006

39

8

2007

30

7

2008

50

11

2015

32

*

2016

28

*

2017

15

*

2018

12

*

2019

12

*

2020

16

*

* not available

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The Corncrake is the least aerodynamic looking of birds, and one can but admire them undertaking a 3,000-mile, two-month migration each spring, with a return leg at the end of the summer. They have to be extraordinarily durable to undertake such a trip, but the efforts results in only a three-year lifespan and have not protected them from experiencing a steady decline in numbers in the UK. Today, their breeding population is almost wholly restricted to the Hebrides and Northern Isles of Scotland, so the birds of Iona and the Mull archipelago are of great importance. In the 1980s the situation locally for these birds was critical – they were nearly gone, so something had to be done. On Iona in particular public awareness was raised, irises were planted, habitat was conserved and numbers initially increased, gradually but encouragingly. Unfortunately, growing the local breeding population further has been a struggle. Table 8.1, which displays selected records up to 2020, shows that numbers of singing (male) birds peaked in 2008, after which there has again been a slow but steady decline. Corncrake calling, Iona

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Wild Mull Cuckoo

The Cuckoo is welcomed each April when its call echoes around the island, unlike in days gone by, when each Cuckoo call signalled that another wife had just been unfaithful to her ‘cuckolded’ husband. Its practice of ‘brood parasitism’ (putting upon another species to raise its young) avoids the Cuckoo even having to make a nest, which allows adults to stay only briefly before returning to West Africa around late June. Mull’s Cuckoos have maintained their numbers over the years, almost certainly because they migrate south-east through Italy and hence to Africa. On this route 95% of migrating birds survive. The number of birds in England, however, has declined by more than 60% over the last 30 years, probably due to climate change and the migration route taken by English birds, which leads through the increasingly drought-affected south-west Spain (where many deaths occur) before crossing the expanse of the Sahara. On Mull, Cuckoos are brood parasites of the Meadow Pipit, and the two have an interesting relationship. There exists an idea that when the Cuckoo looks to lay an egg in the pipit’s nest, the host accepts it with open wings. This could not be further from the truth. There is a war being fought wherein the pipit will confidently attack an adult Cuckoo hanging around its nesting territory to avoid the bird interfering with the raising of its own brood. Unfortunately, the Cuckoo is so highly evolved as to generally succeed in diverting the pipits, sometimes by imitating a Sparrowhawk call, then replacing one of the pipit eggs with one that is identical. On hatching, the Cuckoo chick takes total control by pushing any pipit chicks or eggs out of the nest, then enlisting the adult pipits to feed it. The adoptive parents only permit its presence because the Cuckoo chick is able to imitate the begging call of not just one pipit chick, but a whole nest full – a demand to which the poor adult pipits are genetically programmed to respond. Arising from this story is a Gaelic saying: ‘Gheabh thu e ‘n uair a gheabh thu nead na cubhaig’, which means ‘you’ll get it when you find the Cuckoo’s nest’, i.e. never.

Ravens: caws and effect Among several Gaelic names for a Raven (seen above, mobbing a White-tailed Eagle) is Fitheach. It is a word that features several times in the landscape of Mull. Creag nam Fitheach means ‘the crag of the Raven’; Tom nam Fitheach, signifying ‘the hill of the Raven’, appears more than once. The uplands of Mull certainly profit from hosting a bird whose penetrating, low and grating voice (‘craak’) is a call to lift one’s eyes to the crags, and in doing so to bear witness to some of the most entertaining, gymnastic and probably fun-loving flyers in the natural world. To the first Vikings who came to the islands Ravens were the eyes and ears of Odin and a symbol of war. Throughout history this has been a bird of ill omen, death and evil, perhaps because of its legendary ability to locate carrion. It was said by Hebrideans to be unlucky to see one first thing in the morning – or indeed at any time! Often seen as a threat to lambs, Harvie-Brown noted that ‘we would be sorry to see this noble bird exterminated, but his natural vigour, cunningness, and ability in the struggle for existence, may, we believe, long preserve him’. Ravens’ propensity for taking advantage of any weakness in animals is well recognised in the old saying ‘Am fitheach a dh’ eireas moch ‘s ann leis a bhios suil a bheothaich a tha ‘s a pholl’, which means ‘the raven that rises early gets the eye of the beast in the bog’. A gathering of Ravens is often called an ‘unkindness’. Ravens mate for life and like all passerines, of which they are our largest, their chicks are born undeveloped – eyes closed and bald. Youngsters need to be cared for by their parents for a prolonged period, although this enables their brains to develop impressively; indeed, Ravens are credited with great intelligence, including the capacity for problem solving and mimicking human speech.

Tree Lungwort and Orange Pox Lichen

NINE

The Kingdom of the Celtic Rainforest ‘There is a low mist in the woods – It is a good day to study lichens.’ Henry David Thoreau, A Year in Thoreau’s Journal (1851)

Woodlands’ ancient magic The ancient woodlands of Mull are some of the richest habitats in the UK. Hundreds or even thousands of years of largely undisturbed ecosystems and industrious biological activity have created a unique resource. To appreciate them at their best it is a good idea to reset one’s parameters. Rather than forever tracking fins, fur and feathers, why not dig out the magnifying glass from the bottom of the drawer, pack a camera and, by way of a change, sally forth to the woods with serious intent? Turning away from the grand panoramas of sea and mountains for a brief while affords the opportunity to engage with some real wonders literally under your nose. Mull’s woodland species are among the very finest that any nature has to offer – anywhere. So mesmerised are we by the island’s more celebrated wildlife attractions, so consumed by driving from one viewing place to another, that many folk are simply unaware that they might be missing something really special. Of course, getting very intimate with tree trunks, damp undergrowth and mossy boulders tends not to top most people’s wildlife choices, but this is a great pity because they will find in this landscape a distinct presence and atmosphere. Of all Mull’s prodigious assets, ancient woodlands are the most often cited as being of international importance. Rewarding in any season, after the summer has passed, when days shorten, and the humid mists and rains start to become more pervasive, the magic truly begins! Ancient woodlands are so packed with exotic life that their contribution to the island’s reputation as a species ‘hotspot’ is boundless. In contrast to many places, including other Scottish islands, where woodland has almost disappeared, and many shade and moisture-loving plants and other organisms have become extinct, Mull provides a home for unique ‘temperate rainforest’. Like the better-known tropical rainforests, this is a biodiversity ‘bank’, a key component of the powerful ‘green’ engine that drives Mull’s natural history.

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Wild Mull

The ‘other’ rainforest Temperate rainforest is a scarce commodity – a much rarer habitat than its tropical counterpart. In Scotland, it is found mainly on the west coast where the mild, stable temperatures derived from Atlantic currents help create the humidity and high rainfall necessary for this extravagant community of plants to thrive. These habitats are known collectively as the Celtic Rainforest. In spring, the forest floor is an exuberant tapestry of flora, including Bluebell, Wood Sorrel, Yellow Pimpernel, Primrose, Ramsons (better known as Wild Garlic), Wood Anemones and a range of ferns, all as fresh and inviting as anywhere. The special conservation value of this rainforest, however, lies in its diverse communities of Atlantic-oceanic bryophytes, lichens and fungi. By summer’s end and into autumn, a transformation brings these centre stage. Clinging damp saturates them with life, plumps them up and raises them to their pulpy, sumptuous, vibrant best. The moss of the rocks is revived, toadstools thrust moist earth aside to miraculously emerge overnight, whilst tree trunks and branches drip with a luxuriant selection of liverworts, lichens and mosses. A distinctive thick sweet aroma of fungi and dead vegetation, broken down by industrious microorganisms, pervades the air. The deep blanket of moss covers the floor and spreads over the boulders and trees, taking moisture from the heavy mists and rain and releasing it slowly, thickening the humidity that nurtures the lichens. Bluebell woods, Gruline



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The conifer forests and tall-canopy mixed woodlands such as Aros Park, Torosay Estate, and others around the large nineteenth-century estate houses, provide rich and varied introductory habitats for lichens and fungi. The scarcer species, however, are at their most abundant in the ancient woodlands that have provided a perfect home, and been in continuous existence, for most of the postglacial era. Many woods are shaded and some have open canopies and glades, while others have been managed in some way in the past, their extent not defined strictly by the line of the trees. Small ravines, the banks of burns, some corries, boulder fields and steep crags provide suitably protected, if small, niches for rainforest species and offer corridors or stepping stones for some to spread to new areas. This is especially important today, because much of the unfenced rainforest that has not been protected from sheep and deer retains mature trees but little (and sometimes no) underlying regeneration.

The conservation obligation The Celtic Rainforest is depicted as being dominated by a specific range of tree species. They include those with a predominance of Alder and Goat Willow in especially damp places; birches are very tolerant species that can occupy acidic soils; and Ash generally prefers drier, more fertile soils. Other species such as Wych Elm, Rowan, Holly, Aspen, Blackthorn and Hawthorn are found interspersed with these to a greater or lesser extent. However, the two woodland types probably among the oldest, and most at risk, are the Atlantic Oakwood and the Atlantic Hazelwood. There are only 500 ha of hazelwood defined as rainforest within the whole of western Scotland. Atlantic Hazelwood is older than both Scotland’s Atlantic Oakwoods and some of the famed Caledonian pinewoods. This is because birches and Hazel were the first trees to recolonise Mull after the last of the huge glaciers that once encased the island melted. Birches are quick-growing ‘pioneer’ species that are often later replaced by other slower-growing species. Pollen analysis and radiocarbon dating has confirmed that birches were scattered in coastal and sheltered areas of Mull around 9,500 bp, but that Hazel had become widely established as woodlands by 8,800 bp. Despite this lineage of hazelwood, the analysis also suggests that, due to climatic conditions in particular, this woodland has always been widely distributed but of limited density on the island. Among today’s trees, some display distinct signs of age, with thick, rough trunks. A protective characteristic of Hazel is that it can ‘self-coppice’. Being naturally multi-stemmed, trees send out straight shoots from their base without needing the encouragement of being cut. In this way a Hazel stool can quietly carry on replenishing itself year on year. This affords it some protection from grazing animals, though it has also been necessary to fence some woodlands to conserve them.

172

Wild Mull

There are numerous small hazelwoods spread around the island, including many on the Ross of Mull, but some fine protected examples are found at Treshnish and at Gribun, under the cliffs facing Inchkenneth. The Atlantic Oakwoods have also been protected from grazing to a limited extent and some are incorporated within designated Sites of Special Scientific Interest. These are some of the largest remaining examples of native woodland in the Hebrides. Notable ones exist around the Ardura/River Lussa area which features open oak and oak/birch woodland, with Ash and Hazel on the less acid soils, and Alder along the stream courses. Unfortunately, there is also evidence here of a comparatively recent competitor, the undesirable shrub Rhododendron ponticum.

Hazel stools, Tireragan



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A relatively easy and lovely lochside walk at Loch Bà, surrounded by mountains, encounters stands of open oak woodland along the banks. These have been less intensively exploited than other deciduous woods, resulting in older oak standards and fewer of the multi-stemmed trees that evidence historical coppicing. Scarisdale Wood, by Loch na Keal, provides a characterful example of ancient, wind-shaped oak/birch woodland on moss-covered boulders, but lacks new growth and shows signs of needing protection from grazing and firewood cutting by wild campers. It stands in comparison to the flourishing fenced woodland on the mountainside behind. Said to be the oldest oak on Mull, there is one particular ancient tree in the regenerated dense woodland of Tireragan estate near Knockvologan which is unlike any with similar claims on the mainland. It lies contorted, gnarled and horizontal, with fragments dropping off each winter. Providing it remains in the protective embrace of its healthy younger cousins, it should stay resilient enough to survive many more years yet.

The distorted form of Mull’s ‘oldest’ oak, Tireragan

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Wild Mull

Lichen, lichen, everywhere… The lichens of these woodlands are of tough stock, adapted to survive in all kinds of harsh conditions, which is why lichens are so successful globally. In 2005 a Russian space probe was launched carrying several capsules of lichen. The capsules were exposed to the space vacuum for 15 days and bombarded with unscreened cosmic rays, after which they were returned to Earth, where they were found to be in perfect health. Even lichens, however, have their limits. They failed the ultimate test of toughness when they were attached to the outside of a heat shield of a subsequent rocket – and vaporised. More particularly, lichens are truly fascinating organisms. For example, whether on wood, soil, other plants or gravestones, they digest the substrate’s minerals then give them up for wider ‘use’. Using chemicals, lichens literally consume rock, which is one of the primary means by which the inanimate minerals within rocks are liberated into soils and then into the metabolic cycles of living organisms. All of us probably owe the minerals in our own bodies to their passage through lichen, and a healthy lichen population is one of the mainstays that enable more spectacular large animals to thrive. Lichen provide important micro-habitats, shelter and food for numerous small invertebrates which in turn are prey for larger invertebrates and birds. They deliver important ecosystem services such as carbon cycling, nitrogen Crustose lichen on rock among moss



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fixing and water retention. In a less grand use, Chaffinches and other birds often include local lichens in their nests to camouflage them against predators. Lichens are therefore fundamental to Mull’s ecology, yet received scant attention before the 1960s. The extent of this neglect is shown by the fact that up to 1965 a paltry 37 taxa had been identified on the island. Then, from 1966 to 1970 an intensive study of the flora and lichens of Mull was undertaken by the British Museum (Natural History). Largely as a result, today there are over 700 species of lichens recorded (and probably more to find). Jermy and Crabbe (1978) said that ‘together with the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, parts of Morvern and Kintyre, the lichen flora of Mull represents the best example of the predominance of the Atlantic element in the British flora’. The icing on the cake is that, when viewed through a magnifying glass, lichen are extraordinarily beautiful.

Two’s company, three’s a lichen Armed with this knowledge, it is not important to know all the different species of lichen or even all of the biological terminology. They can simply be enjoyed for what they are. It is, though, helpful to understand what makes them so clearly distinct from other organisms. For 150 years they were thought to be unique in the ‘plant’ world, being two organisms living together as one. This is a complex idea, not examined here in too much detail, so science-phobes should remain calm at this point. Suffice to say that until 2016, and even today, lichens were described as a fungus and an alga (or cyanobacterium) jogging along in a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship, wherein the fungal element requires carbohydrate as a food source, and the alga requires shelter. As the alga is photosynthetic it provides carbon (in the form of sugars) for the fungus, and in return receives protection and nutrients. However, in 2016 it was found that a second entirely different fungus is also quite normally bedded down in what was then described as a three-way relationship, making lichens an even more extraordinary natural phenomenon. The newly discovered fungus is a type of yeast whose precise function is so far unknown, but it may produce chemicals that help lichens ward off predators and repel microbes. This was a real game-changer in the world of biology, but when, in 2018, a lichen was found that had yet another fungus in a four-way relationship, all bets were off! Whatever the relationship, we now know that the interior of lichen is often richly imbued with complex fungal chemicals not replicated anywhere else in nature, and that these are likely to play a variety of roles including protection from UV radiation, desiccation and perhaps grazing by herbivores. It may also explain the many uses that people have found for lichens, probably for millennia.

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Beauties and the beasts Admittedly, for one or two species, beauty may be very much in the eye of the beholder – and to properly behold them, a magnifying glass is useful, though a camera can also blow pictures up to a size where they can be appreciated with the naked eye. That they are admired and enjoyed may be sensed from the affectionate names of some lichens found on Mull: Elf Ears, Norwegian Specklebelly, Lob Scrob, Desperate Dan, Sea Ivory and Orange Sea Star are among many, many others. From so many species, a few examples serve only as an introduction to what a keen woodland explorer might find. In summer, dried-up jelly lichens (e.g. Gabura fasicularis) are barely noticeable. After absorbing water, this species expands, sponge-like, with its swollen fruits standing in clusters to form jelly-like cushions: its Octopus Suckers common name, Octopus Suckers, describes perfectly the fruits’ appearance. Links with animals feature strongly in descriptive names, and the dog lichens (genus Peltigera) are so-called because they are supposed to look as if they have dog’s teeth. From at least 2000 bp, people believed that the look of some plants related to the way that they might be used to cure ailments. A ‘doctrine of signatures’, developed in the fifteenth century, suggested that ‘nature marks each growth according to its curative benefit’, so dog lichens were used for treating wounds such as dog bites, spleenworts for the spleen and Toothwort for teeth and so forth. Similarly, lungworts (genus Lobaria) resemble the tissue of lungs so were thought to be a remedy for respiratory diseases. They have loosely attached, leafy-ridged lobes and the large, easily recognised Tree Lungwort (Lobaria plumonaria) has a rich green colour in winter. It is very

Dog lichen



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common on Mull and in parts of western Scotland, but scarce elsewhere in Britain due to its intolerance of even low levels of pollution. This is a characteristic of many lichens, to the extent that they are used as indicators to determine levels of air pollution present in different locations. Other forms of lichen are as various as they are ubiquitous. Cladonia rangiferina, often called Reindeer Lichen, looks like clusters of miniature white reindeer antlers. Green Satin, has lustrous, succulent and slightly crenulated vivid green leaves upon which its orange fruiting bodies sit, as if casually scattered. Crustose (crusted) lichens of various kinds sprawl across Tree Lungwort rocks and the smoother bark of trees such as Hazel, each with their defined spaces marked by dark lines, like territorial borders on a parchment map. Crustose species that are seen might include: the Pepperpot Lichen, dotted like the holes on top of a pepperpot; the script lichens, which sit among the others like runic inscriptions, giving one, Graphis scripta, an alternative name of Secret Writing Lichen; and Thelotrema lepadinum, a barnacle lichen, which is unmistakably like those found in the sea. This lichen’s spores, at 130 micrometres (0.13 mm) long, are considered to be very large in lichen terms and because of this the spores do not move very far, so they are considered to be good indicators of ancient woodland.

Script lichen

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Yellow Specklebelly would be a nondescript dark green leaf were it not for the dotted bright yellow pigment on its upper surface; be warned that this pigment can make it toxic. One of those lichens with a longer name is the Frilly-fruited Jelly Skin Lichen, which is one of many species that demonstrates that the emergence of the fruit bodies can make all the difference between an interesting lichen and a really characterful one. The same is true of the Red-eyed Shingle Lichen, whose fruit bodies have been likened to jam tarts, and the Plum-fruited Felt Lichen. Less characterful, but certainly memorable, are the stinky stictas. Gentle rubbing of these innocuous ruffled lichens releases a chemical, trimethylamine, that may prevent them from being eaten by slugs. They have a distinctly pungent and lingering odour of fish. Beautiful? To another sticta, perhaps. Plumb-fruited Felt Lichen



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The uses of lichen So close is the relationship between people and lichens that it has a field of study all to itself: ethnolichenology. In Scotland lichens were traditionally used for healing, since when it has been discovered that 50% of all lichen species have antibiotic properties. In the 1960 John Wyndham novel The Trouble with Lichen, a young female biochemist discovers that a chemical extracted from lichen is able to slow the ageing process, enabling people to live two or three times longer than normal. This is less far-fetched than it sounds, as lichens have been found to have potential as antioxidants, antiviral agents, antifungal treatments and anticancer drugs. One lichen extract, pannarin, was found to induce cell death in human prostate carcinoma cells. Textured Lungwort (Lobaria scrobiculata, also commonly known as ‘Lob Scrob’) which is creamy-yellow when dry but strangely more slate-blue when wet, has been discovered to contain a compound that can treat bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE; ‘mad cow disease’). Perhaps anti-ageing properties of lichens will be confirmed in the future as well. Very few lichen are poisonous when eaten, but some are difficult to digest and usually possess mildly toxic compounds. Nevertheless, they have been used as food by people, and it is quite possible that they were eaten as a last resort during the famines that beset the Highlands and Islands. In other uses, Reindeer Lichen produces usnic acid, which has been used as a preservative in toothpaste, shampoo, deodorants, sun-creams, face creams and cosmetics. Lichens are not constrained to living in woodlands, and the generic Gaelic word for lichen, crotal, is often explicitly used to describe the brilliant yellow species that are found on rocks, particularly close to the seashore. It was traditionally scraped off with a sharpened spoon or bespoke metal tool then used as a dye for coarse cloth, often in conjunction with other plants such as heather or seaweed, or even peat soot from chimneys. In short, the potential of lichens is unbounded, a resource to be appreciated and neglected at our peril. Blue/white Reindeer Lichen

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The woodland wizards Featuring almost as highly as the lichens are the fungi of the broadleaved woodlands. That said, like lichen, many fungi can be found in open country, and they are also a wonderful feature of the coniferous forests. Today they delight us in our ‘fungal forays’, but historically they were as important for people as any natural resource. The 5,300 year old ‘iceman’, nicknamed Ötzi, found frozen in the Austrian Alps in 1991, would have had many similarities in lifestyle with contemporaries on Mull. He was found to be carrying a pouch full of Hoof Bracket Fungus, a common species on Mull that grows on birch trees. He almost certainly used this to light fires, and an alternative name for the species today is Tinder Fungus. He was also carrying pieces of another bracket fungus found on the island, Razorstrop Fungus or Birch Bracket, which is known to be an antioxidant and can also inhibit bacteria. Was this part of Ötzi’s medical kit? The awesome importance of fungi to the natural history of the world, let alone Mull, is illustrated by the fact that plants only made it out of the water around 500 million years ago because of their collaboration with fungi, which served as their root systems for tens of millions of years until plants contrived to develop their own. This association with plant roots persists today. Mycorrhizal fungi act like an extra root system for many plant species, gathering nutrients such as phosphorus from the soil in exchange for the plant giving them sugars and water. Today, mycorrhizal fungi can be purchased to add into new plantings of trees and shrubs thereby helping the roots establish more rapidly. In fact, so fundamental is the power of fungi that 90% of plants rely on them to live. They are central to everything that functions in the natural world, including ourselves. To emphasise their vast reproductive capacity, fungi give out around 50 megatons of spores each year – equivalent to the weight of 500,000 Blue Whales – making them the largest source of living particles in the atmosphere. Fungi are a kingdom on their own, quite separate from plants. In fact, DNA comparisons have shown that fungi are more closely related to animals than plants. Not having the means to photosynthesise, the fungi we are concerned with here, as opposed to yeasts, feed by secreting digestive enzymes through their mycelium. This is made up of long, slender threads called hyphae, which absorb nutrients from dead organic matter such as fallen leaves, dead wood, and animal dung. In this way fungi recycle the carbon from dead matter and release locked-up nutrients such that other organisms may use them. They have been described as ‘metabolic wizards’ that can explore, scavenge and salvage ingeniously. In essence, there is a visible and an invisible woodland fungi community. The toadstools are the visible, but with a little imagination the vast network of hyphae that extend underground or in dead organic matter is as exciting in its way,



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both in terms of scale but also in its influence upon diverse species. The hyphae associated with a single fungus can be so extensive that a Honey Fungus in Oregon was found to be the largest organism on the planet: a modest 5.5 km in diameter. There may well be even bigger ones out there. Although they are perhaps the most important components of any ecosystem, it is estimated that 93% of the world’s fungal species remain to be discovered.

Fruiting body gills In order to reproduce through its spores, the fungus needs to be able to disperse the spores a distance away so that a new organism is not competing for food with its parent. Unlike for plant seeds, few animals spread the spores of fungi so the latter must do it for themselves. When all their spores are mature and ready for dispersal, some fungi fruit have the ability to release water vapour. This vapour evaporates, cooling the surrounding air; because the cool air is denser than warm air, it ‘flows’ out and away from the fungus fruit, carrying the spores a short but crucial, distance away from the parent plant.

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The short life of a paddock-stool The fungi with which most people are familiar are therefore the fruiting bodies that appear above ground, usually described as either toadstools or mushrooms. Despite the tendency for the former to mean inedible fungi fruit and the latter to be edible fruit, there is actually no scientific difference between the two. Thus from hereon they will all be known as fungi – thereby resisting the temptation to introduce another word to this book, namely paddock-stool (‘paddock’ being the Scots word for a toad). When a plant or animal needs to grow it has to do so slowly and laboriously by creating new cells. When a fungus fruit grows it begins with a few cells and then simply enlarges those cells by pumping water into them. It is so quick and easy that it enables a fungus to grow, as if by magic, in the space of a few hours. Unfortunately, so palatable are they to insects, slugs, maggots and some other animals, including people, that they can disappear again almost as quickly. This can make identification difficult. Nevertheless, over 2,000 fungi species have been recorded on Mull, and there are almost certainly more to come. The following snapshot of species will hopefully entice the reader to enter (or return to) the wonderful world of fungi. Through admiring their multiplicity and intrinsic beauty, these unquestioned stars of Mull’s biodiversity may be granted a little more of the limelight than afforded them thus far. Those below are relatively common species, but carrying a fungi pocket guide is recommended, because Mull has some real rarities that can crop up anywhere. Blackening Brittlegill, Aros Park



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A fungal identity parade A common ‘starter’ species, found in groups around rotting wood, is Sulphur Tuft. This attractive fungus can exist in small clumps or large ‘swarms’, returning every few years until it exhausts the food it is able to extract from a tree, at which time other species take over. It is said to be very bitter tasting, which is probably why more people do not suffer from poisoning. Its Latin name is Hypolophoma fasciculare, the genus Hypolophoma meaning ‘with threads’. Fasciculare comes from the Latin fasces, which was a bundle of rods tied around an axe and carried before Roman magistrates to symbolise their authority. From the same source comes the word fascism, a close ‘bundle’ of people having centralised authority and power. Perhaps Sulphur Tuft can be remembered as the ‘Fascist Fungus’. Or perhaps not. Sulphur Tuft, Aros Park

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When young, the Mica Cap or Glistening Inkcap has its grooved, browny-beige cap surface coated with an attractive, glittery, mica-like powder that provides the inspiration for its name. That it starts to turn into an inky liquid with age or after cutting, accounts for the alternative name. It has medicinal uses, including extracts from its mycelium having been found to inhibit cancers in mice, suggesting possible human applications in the future.

Mica Cap

Yellow Brain Fungus or Witches’ Butter takes a completely different form. Although associated with rotting wood, it is actually parasitic on another wood-rotting fungi of the genus Peniophora. According to some legends, if Witches’ Butter appears on the gate or door of a house it means that a witch has cast a spell on the family living there.

Yellow Brain Fungus



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Continuing the theme of contrasting species, the Amethyst Deceiver is often found on moss where its deep purple colour stands out when young, although this fades as its cap spreads and ages. The Shaggy Scalycap is a quite rich, browny colour and, by definition, ‘scruffy’, though characterful. Some say it has an odour of garlic or onions, though if partial to these, do not be tempted by the fungus.

Amethyst Deceiver

Shaggy Scalycap

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The fungi/food quandary People have always been drawn to eating fungi. Although some are delicious, most people know that others (often of similar appearance) can be poisonous. Fungi should not cause a dilemma: if one is not sure, do not eat. With that in mind, whilst generally steering clear of the edible/non-edible discussion, there are a couple of species that are hard to mistake and whose presence is occasionally jealously guarded by culinary connoisseurs. These are the bright yellow Chanterelle and its black lookalike, the Horn of Plenty. To eat the latter, one has first to overcome wariness generated by its other common name, the Trumpet of the Dead, which derives from the idea that the trumpet shape emerging from the earth is supposed to be an instrument played by the dead underground. Like many under-recorded species, the NBN Atlas does not indicate it as being present on Mull, but samples were collected at Aros Park by Buchanan White in 1881 (while he was attending a conference on Mull of the Cryptogamic Society of Scotland), and the photo below was taken at the same place 140 years later. It is good for drying and storing, and it can be ground into powder and used as a seasoning – so they say. Horn of Plenty



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Contrary to its name, the Horn of Plenty’s season is short, unlike the Chanterelle which produces trumpet-shaped fruiting bodies from early July to about the end of September. Its Latin name, Cantharellus cibarius, is entirely descriptive, meaning a ‘chalice-like food’. It can appear in groups and is associated with many species of trees, including conifers; it may, however, take some initial finding. When fried, chanterelles give up a lot of moisture, but lightly sautéed with a little butter and wrapped in an omelette provides a meal as good as edible fungi can get. In contrast, Fly Agaric – beautiful, brash and red with white warts – is poisonous so definitely not one to mess with. It is probably the best known of all fungi, not least because it is the species upon which fairies and pixies, and perhaps the suspiciously intoxicated caterpillar that Alice met in Wonderland, choose to sit.

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Wild Mull Hazel Gloves fungus

Mull has a very special relationship with the globally rare fungus, Hazel Gloves. It is usually said to have been first identified on Mull in 1975, although the British Museum (Natural History) survey of Mull, undertaken from 1967–70, noted the first British record a few years earlier. It has since been identified in scattered locations across the UK and Ireland, but Mull is still its epicentre. Growing predominantly on Hazel and occasionally also on other species like Blackthorn, its distinctive fruits look like clumps of the fingers of gloves. So special are both Hazel Gloves and their preferred habitat, Atlantic Hazelwood that this fungus was chosen in the 2016 Species Action Framework (which supplemented the Scottish Biodiversity Action Plan) to be studied both in its own right and to conserve the Atlantic Hazelwood. Unusually, it seems that Hazel Gloves does not develop hyphae and therefore can neither spread in the same way as most fungi within the wood nor feed directly on the wood. Instead, it is thought to be a parasite on the Glue Fungus (Hymenochaete corrugata), which decays wood and is able to extend hyphae under the bark of trees. The Glue Fungus sticks pieces of deadwood, which have broken off and been caught up in the Hazel canopy, to other standing parts of the tree so that they are held in the air whilst the fungus populates them. This is a devious way to avoid competition with other fungi that live in the damper conditions on the ground. However, this also makes the Glue Fungus vulnerable to ‘wild campers’ collecting deadwood for fires. Not able to spread using hyphae, the Hazel Gloves is highly dependent upon spore dispersal, which means that it will disappear when its host dies and reappear in quite a haphazard manner as its spores find a suitable new host. It is therefore often found by looking for the tell-tale detached dead stems that have been glued to living stems by the Glue Fungus.



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Bryophytes The fascinating, though complex, bryophyte group is made up of three main divisions: mosses, liverworts and hornworts. They are all non-flowering plants that reproduce by spores rather than seeds. They are probably related to the earliest land species, perhaps going back 400 million years, and therefore quite primitive plants, lacking roots and being dependent on water to reproduce. The British Museum (Natural History) survey of Mull recorded 571 species of bryophytes, and it is likely that more have been found since, whilst some certainly remain to be discovered. Bryophytes all call out for attention because they are collectively ubiquitous and occupy much of the landscape. However, identification really is a specialist area so this section does not intend to discuss them in great depth. The following is a generalised starting point for differentiating the principal divisions, though the differences go very much further in practice. It’s also worth getting out your hand lens! Mosses are divided into two groups in which the stems are either upright and cushion-forming, or trailing and creeping, thereby forming mats. In most the leaves are arranged spirally around the stem unlike leafy liverworts, which have two or three rows of leaves up each side of their stem and spore capsules formed as small globes. Thallose liverworts lack stems or leaves but instead have a flat, rubbery body and a flower-like spore capsule. Hornworts are described as having a flattish, green sheet, with spores produced in a tapering, horn-like or needle-like capsule. Suffice to say that there is a real beauty in the way that they clothe the landscape and give it a somewhat gentle and painterly air, while serving to retain water and stabilise soils, and their capacity for coexistence, even to the extent of growing on or through each other, is admirable. Perhaps it is as well to leave this group by saying that they can be separated out almost intuitively to begin with. Start by examining mosses, often different sphagnum mosses, in boggy, peat-bed areas. Then, by reference to identification guides, discover ever more species as time goes by. Remember that Latin names and formal identification are not always vital for the sheer enjoyment of these wonderful contributors to Mull’s landscape.

Moss capsules

Puffin among Thrift, Staffa

TEN

Plants of Place and Purpose ‘Noo the summers in prime Wi’ the flooers richly bloomin’ Wi’ the wild mountain thyme A’ the moorlan’s perfumin’ Robert Tannahill, The Braes of Balquhidder (c.1800)

A culture of flowers Scots have always turned to nature for inspiration and solace alike. Two of Scotland’s great songs, Flower of Scotland and The Flowers of the Forest, take flowers as a metaphor for the menfolk who fought against the English at Bannockburn and Flodden. The eighteenth-century reel The Flowers of Edinburgh is a paean to the young women of the Scottish capital. Ireland might claim a share of the famous folk song The Wild Mountain Thyme, but this ballad of love and place originated from The Braes of Balquhidder 200 years ago, long before Rod Stewart rebranded it as Purple Heather and explicitly made it a sentimental homage to the land of his Scottish ancestors. Flowers are inextricably intertwined with Scottish culture, nationhood and sense of belonging. That being so, we would expect Mull to have its own affectionate working of a floral theme, and sure enough the island’s favourite bard, Dugald MacPhail, came up with The Mull Primrose (An t-sobhrach Mhuileach, in Gaelic). Written around 170 years ago, it is still sung in the Gaelic. Whilst living in Edinburgh, MacPhail received a bunch of rooted Primroses from a friend on Mull, which he planted in his garden ‘in the land of the smoke and foreigners’, where they subsequently flowered. He was moved to celebrate them in song as ‘precious, precious gold’, but it was a celebration tinged with the sadness of his exile. Primroses, not to be confused with the scarce Scottish Primrose (endemic to the north coast and Orkney), are excellent representatives of the rich resource that plants are to Mull and, as the harbingers of spring on the island, a lovely species with which to commence a portrait of the island’s flora. Not a rose, but nevertheless called the prima rosa (the ‘first flower’), they are among the most common and popular flowers to appear. Despite MacPhail’s lament for his lost home, they are also surely among those that bring most cheer.

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Their low, bubbly, pale lemon-yellow heads appear, bunched and abundant, in fertile areas from ancient woodlands and the banks of burns to the sides of roads and tracks. They spread almost wholly by seed dispersal, and so make themselves available to pollinators of many habitats and of all kinds, from bumblebees and beetles, to Orange-tip, Small Tortoiseshell, Peacock and Green-veined White butterflies. They are a perfect example of the way plants decorate the Mull landscape, literally and liberally shaping, colouring and nurturing our sense of place. Primrose Primroses are an attractive and important nectar source for long-tongued insects such as butterflies, and although they may be common, they are no ordinary plant. They and others of their genus (Primula) are unique in having something called ‘pin’ and ‘thrum’ reproductive organs. The centre of individual Primrose flowers has one of two distinctly different arrangements. It is either a pin-eyed flower where the stigma grows, like a pin head, separately near the entrance to the flower and above the pollen-bearing anthers, or a thrum-eyed flower where the positions are reversed: the anthers are nearer the flower entrance and the stigma further down the flower-tube. The flower invites insects to try to reach their tongues into the nectar at the base of the flower-tube. If it is a thrum-eyed flower, the pollen from the anthers near the entrance sticks to the top of the insect’s proboscis. When it then visits a pin-eyed flower and tries to get at the nectar, the pollen is perfectly positioned to be transferred to the stigma near the entrance. If an insect visits a pin-eyed flower first, it collects pollen from the lower anthers on the middle of its proboscis, ready to be transferred to the stigma in a thrum-eyed plant, which is positioned lower down the flower-tube. Charles Darwin was not the first to notice the differences in structure, but he studied primroses intently and is recognised as the first to understand that this adaptation ensures cross-pollination between plants. What Darwin failed to record is that the Primrose has the power to open doors to fairyland when a posy is tapped on a rock by a ‘fairy whisperer’, giving it a magical reputation that is unlikely to be disproved, as all fairy whisperers know that one should not pick Primroses.



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Creating an identity Affording a sense of place gives somewhere distinction, but it also creates emotional bonds. The greater the familiarity – the more that we forge images and memories – the more pronounced our insights into a locality. A relationship is built up, layer upon layer, with the natural world an essential ingredient, to be appreciated in a host of different, characterful ways, none more so than through familiar ferns and flowering plants. None are unique to the islands in themselves (although some are extremely rare), but in combination with the geography, climate and soils, and the uses that land has been put to by people over time, they make a telling contribution to the appeal of Mull. The embellishment of early spring woodlands by Primroses is therefore illustrative of the Mull flora aggregation that particularly gives identity to the multifaceted Celtic Rainforest. They are, though, just one small, if charismatic, element of this ancient living landscape. Other personalities include Wood Anemone and Bluebell, which follow the Primroses and carpet both woodlands and some of the expansive mountainsides. Similarly, the coastline is made glorious at different times by the Yellow Irises, which shoot up from nowhere to make herbaceous borders lining coast roads, and by the frothy Thrift that seems to embellish every nook and cranny. Thrift is sometimes known as the ‘Heugh Daisy’, heugh being a Scottish word for a steep crag or cliff, but it is also well named as ‘Sea Pink’, painting and smoothing the rocks in a palette from soft pale rose to deep magenta, as if in defiance of the transgressions meted out to them by storms and abrasive salt spray.

Immigrants and settlers We are talking here of vascular plants, which have stems, leaves and roots. Scotland makes the very most of those that it has, but it is fair to say that in global terms the country does not have an especially large variety. This is due to its geography and relative isolation having inhibited plants from recolonising the country after the last Ice Age obliterated most species. Despite this, Mull still manages to punch above its weight. It is almost 50 years since a comprehensive flora of Mull, edited by Jermy and Crabbe, was published by the British Museum (Natural History). This recorded the ‘florablitz’ of the island undertaken between 1965 and 1970, after being commissioned by the museum. More recently, another survey was completed by the vice-county recorder for Mid Ebudes (Mull, Coll and Tiree) but remains to be published so Jermy and Crabbe’s publication, despite its age, remains the current ‘bible’ of Mull’s flora. No doubt a small number of species have disappeared in that time, and a few

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added, but over 900 species of vascular plants are estimated to grow on Mull. Such variety is excellent for those who revel in the beauty of wild flowers, but even better news for insects and larger animals that are dependent on them. This is testament both to the island’s diversity of growing conditions and the relative lack of disturbance to some of its habitats over time. Nevertheless, it should be borne in mind that around 180 of Mull’s plant species are not indigenous, being the result of direct or indirect introductions by people. Some of those introductions have been discussed elsewhere as potentially ‘problematic’ and invasive species. Others, which also carry the epithet ‘invasive’, appear to pose less of a threat to fellow species. The delicate yellow Mimulus, Monkeyflower, which arrived 100 years ago from Alaska, via domestic gardens, is a case in point. On Mull it hardly seems to ‘invade’ so much as ‘insinuate’ itself among some very rough and tough marsh plants that are well able to fend for themselves. However, the introduction of species to the wild is only part of the story of how people and plants interact on the island. Over time, all this becomes intertwined with the relationship between flora, habitat and place. All these agencies are key to understanding wild Mull and its flowers.

The Iris ‘In Mull, and fome other parts of the Highlands, the root of this plant is ufed as a cure for the tooth-ach, or any inflammation of the throat. For this purpofe, a portion of the root, of the fize of a nutmeg, is bruifed in a mortar with a handful of daifies, the juice of it ftrained thro a linen rag, and a tea-fpoonful of it pour’d into each of the patient’s noftrils. This ftrange application is immediately followed by a kind of falivation, or copious defluxion of rheum from the mouth and noftrils, which often effects a cure, but not without great danger of the patient’s taking cold during the violence of the operation.’ J. Lightfoot, Flora Scotica or, a systematic arrangement, in the Linnaean method, of the native plants of Scotland and the Hebrides, Vol. 2 (1777)



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Expansion and domination In Chapter 4 there is an indictment of the introduced species Rhododendron ponticum. The accusation is that it is bad for other wildlife whilst offering little of any worth. Perhaps a defence could be mounted to the effect that its flowers attract insects, and that in return those insects furnish nearby birds that are feeding their young. Even against that, the argument is that this rhododendron’s main pollinators are bees, which become so besotted by its nectar that they neglect to visit other plants that might, as consequence, not get the chance to set seed. This leaves, on the plus side, only the truth that rhododendron is undeniably beautiful when in full bloom. These seductive charms should not detract from the fact that in modern times it is a highly invasive alien species that swiftly becomes dominant, to the great detriment of biodiversity in general. Bluebells and the iridescent glow of freshly emerging Bracken, Grasspoint

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The expansion of Bracken has similarly been touched upon earlier (pp. 50–51) but is such a powerful presence in the ecology of the island that it deserves further scrutiny. Bracken has spread so much that it is not only the single most influential plant species, but that its story is comparable to that of Rhododendron. There is a key difference, however. Bracken is a native species that has simply taken advantage of our own bad environmental management and our inclination to turn a blind eye to its misdemeanours. What species would not cut loose in these circumstances? During June Bracken starts to dominate the summer landscape as it pushes upwards and unfolds its not unattractive fronds, relentlessly conquering a little more territory each year. Unfortunately, in doing so it threatens many smaller, less robust species and reduces grazing. By September it begins to die back, clothing the island in a dense litter of fallen fronds and transforming everywhere with its trademark burnished-bronze winter colour. New life through old – unfurling Bracken fronds



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Mull has been described as ‘the Bracken capital of Europe’, and, rightly or wrongly, the crime of which this fern stands accused is that it is an expansive, pernicious weed, smothering all that stands in its way. It spreads into areas selectively grazed by sheep that have removed competing plants, and it takes over loamy arable land that has been historically dug, kept fertile and later abandoned. Its advance is irrepressible year on year, and problems of control have been acknowledged for centuries. In 1777, in Flora Scotica, John Lightfoot wrote that Bracken ‘is very difficult to be destroyed. Frequent mowing in pasture grounds, plentiful dunging in arable lands but, above all, pouring urine upon it, are the most approved methods of killing it.’ However, before we all start collecting and filtering our nightsoil, Lightfoot also pointed out that in those days Bracken was reined back because it was heavily cropped for many uses: ‘Fern cut while green, and left to rot upon the ground, is a good improver of land.’ He goes on to mention a series of further purposes, culminating in the information that ‘the inhabitants mow it green, and, burning it to ashes, make those ashes up into balls, with a little water, which they dry in the sun, and make use of them to wash their linen with instead of soap’. In other words, although it was never popular in the wrong places, Bracken has historically had important uses for people in the islands.

From strandline to upland – the march of Bracken, Lagganulva

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Too much of a good thing Most of those uses are now obsolete, but the fact remains that Bracken is also home to more than 40 invertebrate species, including sawflies, moths and some important fritillary butterflies. Eleven of these species are only found on Bracken. Furthermore, decaying Bracken litter provides protection to species such as Bluebell, which otherwise might not survive in numbers on heavily grazed grassland. Moreover, where there is Bracken there are often breeding species of birds such as Wren, Skylark, Stonechat and Whinchat. In these respects, it must be conceded that Bracken does have ecological value – albeit in moderation. Weighing in further on the debit side, Bracken contains hormones that can kill some insects and has recently been studied for use as an insecticide. However, although a number of animals might eat it in times of emergency, it is generally regarded as a bad feed, inducing a variety of acute illnesses in cattle and even being linked to carcinogens for people.

Dark Green Fritillary on Bracken



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Like many adaptable species, Bracken has good points when its spread is limited and bad points when it bursts out of its confines to feed off the advantageous environmental conditions that people have inadvertently bequeathed to it. At present, the balance is tilting too far towards the bad and undoubtedly there are ecological issues which will have to be addressed sooner rather than later. The solution? Think pigs.

A confusion of orchids In contrast to the friendless Bracken, orchids are loved by all – and, overall, not as rare as sometimes thought. Simply the word ‘orchid’ sends people into rapturous acclaim. This is exactly how we should respond to all wild things, so excitement is entirely in order, even when half of Mull seems to be clothed in Heath Spottedorchids. Familiarity should never dull their shine. However, for the beginner-​ botanist the Heath Spotted-orchid is frustratingly difficult to pin down and identify, so for a scrupulously accurate description we have recourse to that provided by the highly respected online NBN Atlas database, as follows: Your average Heath Spotted-orchid is a lovely purple orchid, with spotted leaves similar to the Broad-leaved Marsh orchid. However, there are many variations and exceptions. The colour can vary and the leaves aren’t always spotted. In fact, those with unspotted leaves have white flowers and those with lots and lots of spots have very dark purple flowers. Sometimes the flower head is dense with blossoms while other times the blossoms are spread apart. Even the size can vary. So, that should be clear. As a rule of thumb, and no more than that, if there are masses of them then it should be safe to call them Heath Spotted-orchids – unless they are not.

Heath Spotted-orchid – probably!

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Most of Mull’s orchids are found in damp, grassy, relatively open areas, but there are always exceptions: the honey-beige Bird’s-nest Orchid, for example, prefers deep woodland. It has no green chlorophyll to make its own food, so is actually a saprophyte, meaning that it parasitises fungi in the roots of rotting trees. Quite large, but innocuous and scarce, it has been found close to the coastal path between Tobermory and Aros Park. The Sword-leaved Helleborine and Broadleaved Helleborine also have a liking for woodlands where they can show off quite well. Several species favouring more open spaces are distinguished by shades of blue and purple, including the Chalk Fragrantorchid, Northern Marsh-orchid, Pugsley’s (or Narrow-leaved) Marsh-orchid, Common Spotted-orchid, Early-purple Orchid and Early Marsh-orchid. This is the point at which we urge the use of a good wild-flower guide.

Common Twayblade

Another group at least has the merit of having different – pale yellow – flowers. These include the Greater Butterfly-orchid, the very rare Lesser Butterfly-orchid and Irish Lady’s-tresses. Perhaps inevitably, the Small-white Orchid is yellowish-tinged.

Small White Orchid

Then it becomes more difficult. Common Twayblade, called ‘tway’ (two) because it has a pair of leaves close to the ground, sometimes inhabits light woodland, but at up to 75 cm height it also likes to sit in quite tall grass where it can disguise its thin green stem and sparse green flowers. It is hard to spot, though not as hard as the Lesser Twayblade which is similar, but with a typically red-wine stem and flower colouration, heart-shaped instead of oval leaf, and only about 10 cm in height. They are both readily identified as twayblades by their individual flowers that look somewhat



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like tiny fairies in babies’ romper suits. The Bog Orchid again looks similar, but is a pale green, even smaller, and even harder to find at around 6–8 cm tall. The green, tinged-brown, Frog Orchid completes the list, because the Coralroot Orchid has proved so hard to find that it has not been recorded on Mull since the 1980s. In total, not counting Coralroot, 18 species of orchid have been recorded, all excellent attractors of nectar-hungry insects, though not all can access the nectar of all orchids. Some require the attention of specialist insects, particularly moths with extra-long proboscises such as the Elephant Hawk-moth. To this end, the artful flowers of Greater Butterfly-orchid become more conspicuous, almost luminous as the evening light fades, and their scent becomes stronger as the nightly seduction of its faithful, long-tongued moth attendants begins.

Greater Butterfly Orchid

Of all the flowers, orchids in general may be among those of least function to people, but they do at least have the novelty value of being used as an aphrodisiac. ‘Orchid’ derives from the Greek for testicle, a reference to the two spherical tubers that many species have. They also figure in folklore. In Gaelic the Earlypurple Orchid is known as Gràdh is Fuadh, meaning ‘love and hate’. This was because its two root-tubers are of unequal size. It was believed that eating the larger one made someone fall in love with you, but eating the smaller one caused them to hate you.

Northern Marsh Orchid

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Ferns form places If Bracken is under suspicion, and orchids are placed on a pedestal above most other flowers, then ferns other than Bracken stand somewhere in between. They are among the oldest plants on Earth, evolved to bear no colourful flowers, and often hidden away in damp, shady spaces, so attract little attention in the wild. Yet they have always enjoyed great popularity in horticultural use and landscape gardening. There is a reason. They are used to ‘give form’ to gardens, the larger species having an almost architectural, statuesque, presence, while the smaller ones provide definition in places where other species refuse to live. This is exactly what they do in the wild. Unlike Bracken, which tends to present itself like an impressionist painting, giving landscape-scale structure and colour, ferns are more likely to be stand-out species, each plant contributing individually and precisely, to be objectively admired for its own sake. Among these, the Broad Buckler-fern stands proudly to around one and a half metres tall with fronds splaying in a shuttlecock form from the ground. It is usually among trees and gives woodlands their classic rainforest appearance (albeit temperate rainforest in this case).

Buckler Fern through the Bluebells



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The Hart’s-tongue Fern is a luscious, picturesque plant with unbroken, wavy-edged leaves that has had many medicinal uses over time. Applied externally fronds can be used as an astringent or can be made into an ointment for treating burns or even piles. Taken internally, its alleged successes range from being an expectorant to treating dysentery. Its boundless versatility also extends to making a serviceable shampoo for greasy hair. Hard Ferns, often rooted in cracks at the base of rocks, help soften a hard landscape, though they will also grow along watercourses or open heath. Although they are not as extensive in their uses as Hart’s-tongue Fern, their roots have been eaten during times of deprivation. Maidenhair Spleenwort is a small fern that is distinctive both for growing in cracks and crevices in rocks and dry garden walls, and for the blackish stems to its fronds. This species also claims rich and varied medicinal uses. Common Polypody is one of the ferns that can be seen growing on trees in broadleaved woodland, lending a mysterious, ancient and otherworldly look to the woodlands. Mull also has the ‘filmy’ ferns. The Tunbridge Filmy-fern is another that may be found growing from the branches and trunks of trees whilst the Killarney Fern, saved for last, may be the most special of all. It has only a few colonies around Britain

Hart’s-tongue

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and is a protected and very sought-after plant. Ferns are the only group of plants that have two independent life stages. On the one hand, the gametophyte stage is small and short-lived, whilst the sporophyte stage is larger with long-lived fronds. The Killarney Fern is unique among European ferns in that both generations are found living and reproducing in widely separate colonies. On Mull it occurs in a handful of constantly damp, shaded localities, such as behind cascades or in caves and overhanging rock faces protected from winter frosts. For its protection, the plant’s exact sites are rarely divulged.

Down to the sea From hereon, species that are representative of the island are best considered in their habitats. The rule with islands is to begin at the edge of the sea. English Stonecrop, a sedum, appears regularly not too far from the shore where it can find dry, rocky sites that suit its ground-hugging form. It is not shy of the sun, which is a bonus, since its little faceted gem of a pinkish-white flower positively sparkles. It is a small, subtle plant, whereas Sea Campion in full bloom is a glory, to be found on cliff tops from June onwards. Being a species with a cheerful disposition, its other name seems slightly harsh. It is reputedly known as ‘Dead Man’s Bells’ because picking it is followed by death – but then, what is not?

Roseroot, Caliach

Machair at Calgary, Lady’s Bedstraw in the foreground

At ease on exposed coasts is Roseroot, although it is also found on high, exposed, inland cliff ledges. This saxifrage has sometimes been used in experimental ‘self-medication’, which is hardly surprising because its root systems carry around 140 chemical compounds. Its popularity goes back at least as far as the Vikings, who may have used it for its supposed energy-giving properties when they went ‘a-viking’ or perhaps for its other reputed performance-enhancing attributes. Its name tells us that the cut roots have a distinct scent of roses and were once used to make a kind of eau de toilette, no doubt highly appealing to a Viking. Moving beyond the concentration of Roseroot chemicals to a concentration of species, the delightful stabilised grassy areas of shell-sand that sit behind some of the beaches on the Ross, Iona and a few places further north, should be part of any flora trail. These are known as ‘machair’, an extremely rare and rich habitat found only on exposed coasts of Scotland and Ireland, and never in a dull landscape.

Making the most of machair Calgary Bay machair is a fine illustration of the relative ease with which nature can be spontaneously restored. Until the late 1940s cattle were grazed on the machair but in subsequent decades they were replaced by sheep whose small feet compacted the ground and whose grazing kept the sward much shorter, inhibiting plant growth. In an effort to restore the diversity of flora it was designated as a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), but with Rabbits exacerbating the sheep problem, and Calgary Bay becoming an increasingly popular recreation site for people, the SSSI continued to take a pounding, such that it was assessed as being in ‘unfavourable and declining’ condition.

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Then, in 2017, by employing the simple expedient of fencing off the machair and placing notices advising the public of its nature value, Calgary Bay began to blossom in a way not seen for decades, and delightful by any standards. Orchids appeared and frothy flowerings emerged of species such as the bright yellow Lady’s Bedstraw (used historically to make a fine red dye from the roots), Red Clover, the golden Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil, eyebrights (which have a pinch of yellow in their pansy-like white flower), the misty blue Harebell, and the delicate, yellow but quite toxic Lesser Meadow-rue, among many others. Flowers are now getting the chance not only to grow, but to flourish, set seed and lay down a store for the future. This improvement should continue year on year. The value today is not so much that it preserves particularly scarce species, but that it affords the opportunity for quite common flowers to grow in an abundance and variety scarcely seen where grazing animals dominate. As propaganda for the environment of the island, which brings flora to the fore and raises public awareness of the beauty and diversity of nature, it is priceless. With good fortune, Mull’s machair will trigger more projects to promote the allure of wild flowers. The SSSI status also protects more than just the charismatic, heavily petalled flower species. It causes us to focus on the more modest attributes of a number of grasses, including Perennial Rye-grass, Yorkshire-fog and Sweet Vernal-grass. The latter is the connoisseur’s grass of choice for gently chewing in the corner of the mouth on a hot summer’s day: it can be very sweet. Grasses are so often overlooked, yet they add a different dimension to any habitat, giving movement to the landscape, dancing and nodding in the breeze, and they play an increasingly important part as one drifts further away from the coast. Harebells, Gribun



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Grassland to moorland One of the wonderful experiences inherent in driving around Mull is that, for the most part, the road tends to hug the seashore, or at least open up stunning sea views round corner after corner. Unfortunately, this tends to act as a disincentive to leave the car to explore the hinterland, and to not reconnoitre on foot is to spurn the freedom to immerse oneself in nature at its very, very best. This is where wild Mull really exists, where the drama of nature is ultimately played out, and where flowers take their place as one of the brightest cogs in the whole magnificent machine. Several variations of grassland are to be found as one travels inland or upwards, from well-managed and occasionally re-seeded former arable land lower down, rising initially to a rougher, semi-improved, more species-rich habitat. The latter is dominated by a range of grasses, including the Sheep’s Fescue which thrives on poorer, shallower but reasonably drained soils and which, as its name suggests, is very tolerant of tight grazing by sheep. Drier ground is also favoured by the tall, yellow and scruffy Common Ragwort, and by the contrastingly elegant Harebell, known locally as ‘Scots Bluebell’, which provide a late-summer nectar source for bees. So far, this is perhaps a little underwhelming for some. But look a little closer. Superbly colourful flowering species are to be found: and history tells us how dependent people became on them. By this point, readers may have discerned that this dependency was concentrated very much around medical need and a haphazard mix of doctoring expertise, folklore and quackery. A few examples of species and treatments illustrate the point. Table 10.1  Historical uses of flowering plants Species

Use

Species

Use

Species

Use

Common Dog-violet

cathartic

Germander Speedwell

expectorant

Red Campion

snake bites, soap

Eyebrights

eye infections Herb Robert

combat diarrhoea

Selfheal

colic

Field Gentian

aphrodisiac

wart removal

Yellow Pimpernel

to staunch bleeding

Meadow Buttercup

Although the Bluebell is associated with woodland, it is not confined to it, often appearing in the lower slopes on what may be the ghost footprint of former woodland, but it will also be found in places where woods have never existed. It was formerly called ‘Wild Hyacinth’ in Scotland, but in Gaelic it is brog na chuthaig – the ‘cuckoo’s shoe’ – because it appears when the Cuckoo arrives.

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Wild Mull The Beatons

There was a tradition across Scotland concerning a medical kindred known as Clann Meic-bethad (Clan MacBeth), who made widespread use of plants as treatments. They were known notably on Mull and Islay. There was also another physician family originating from Bethune in France, who took the anglicised name Beaton and is associated with the Isle of Skye. In the fourteenth century, Patrick MacBeth was physician to King Robert I (the Bruce). From then until the eighteenth century most Scottish kings had a kindred physician, latterly all called Beaton as the names of the two families had gradually merged. They also served the Lords of the Isles and several clan chieftains, including the MacLeans of Duart. The Mull Beatons held land near Pennyghael and developed a reputation for also attending to ordinary folk. Near Pennycross a memorial, dated 1582, is reputed to commemorate two Beaton physicians. The Beatons had herbalists in the family as well as physicians, and they are believed to have established on Mull one of the first ‘physick’ gardens in Scotland. Although the hereditary line had ended by the eighteenth century, Beaton manuscripts preserved in the National Library of Scotland ensure that their story lives on, not least in the many plants of Mull to which are ascribed medicinal properties. Examples not previously cited include Gorse, used to treat snake bites. Another was Sneezewort, so-called because, well, it can make people sneeze, and one way of taking it was as a powder – cheap snuff perhaps – though people with toothache would also chew the root. A third example is St John’s-wort. This is also known as Columba’s flower or caol aslachan Chaluim Chille (literally, ‘the flower carried in St Columba’s arms’), because the Irish abbot’s favourite evangelist was St John and the flower is shaped vaguely like a cross. It was popular as a charm against witchcraft and enchantment, but the Beatons might have used it to treat melancholia.



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Inland and higher, lies the damp heath and moorland. Purple Moor-grass thrives on higher rainfall and is the dominant plant in most moorland areas. It is found on flat or gently sloping, tussocky and peaty soils, commonly in the company of Northern Deergrass and European Blueberry (known as blaeberry in Scotland), but the same places also host a multitude of decorative flower varieties. They include commoner species such as Meadow Buttercup; the bobbing blue globes of Devil’s-bit Scabious; charming, tatty and very pink Ragged-Robin; creeping yellow Tormentil; the rich, deep blue of Bugle; pinkish-white Valerian; and Silverweed, otherwise known as ‘Wild Tansy’. The last of these is one of those plants that is obvious yet hardly ever catches the eye. Perhaps that would change if more people were aware of its importance for staving off starvation during times of famine, particularly in the darkest days of the nineteenth century. The silvery leaves are edible but quite insubstantial. The roots were valued, however, tasting vaguely of parsnip. It was described by John Patterson MacLean as having supported Mull’s inhabitants ‘for months together’. Plants of Heath and Moorland

Pignut and Red Campion

Valerian

Devil’s-bit Scabious

Meadow Buttercup and Germander Speedwell

Tormentil

Ragged-Robin and Silverweed

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A similar story could be told of Pignut, a plant with clustered heads of tiny white flowers that loves the open and that Lightfoot describes as having bulbous roots which ‘taste like a chesnut [sic], whence the trivial name of Bulbocastanum. Many persons are fond of them’. Wild Carrot, too, sounds like an appetising food to be eaten in extremis, but in reality is not very palatable.

Getting wetter There are said to be over 40 different words in Gaelic for ‘bog’. In fact, the word bog itself derives from the Gaelic bogach (soft, boggy ground). On Mull, there is damp, damper and boggy habitat. This marshy, peaty terrain is often shirked by the less intrepid but is rarely as unwelcoming as it seems. It does require good footwear, and perhaps a walking pole for comfort, except in the driest conditions. Fortuitously, however, plants love bogs! Bog Myrtle – a tough, woody shrub – is common though quite anonymous, rarely reaching anything like its potential height as it is irresistible to deer. It is shameful that this species is overlooked, as it has a property more sought after than the Philosopher’s Stone: when crushed and rubbed on the skin, its leaves give up a quite pleasant citrus perfume that repels midges. More visually striking but practically useless and unable to be spun into thread, is Cotton Grass. Not a grass but a sedge, its tufty seed heads are like masses of bright, delicate balls of white cotton, bobbing as one in the wind. It did find a use in Scotland, namely to dress wounds in the First World War. After Cotton Grass has flowered, Grass-of-Parnassus appears, which is not a grass either, but related to saxifrages; it has a delicate ivory flower, typical of saxifrages, Bog Asphodel



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with light green veins. It has a grandiose title for such a diminutive species, being named after the Greek Mount Parnassus, home of the Muses – goddesses of poetry, music and learning. A thought to hold onto as the trail heads into increasingly wet ground. Eventually, the hunters will find themselves among the late blooms of a flower with no significant claims to any medicinal properties, but which has been used as a cheap alternative to saffron – Bog Asphodel. Its single stalk of yellow-orange flowers blooms from June through July and later, turning to a deep orange as it sets seed. Rarely much more than 25 cm or so tall, it is a small firework of a flower. Marsh Woundwort, in contrast, is tall and very elegant, with a purple-pink flower spike over 70 cm from the ground. Its name says it all. This is one of a great healing family of plants, used extensively by physicians back to the Dark Ages. Finally, continuing the firework analogy, a plant that looks like a tiny rocket burst caught in still frame is the almost mythical and carnivorous Round-leaved Sundew. It can be found among mosses and is often overlooked as being a moss. The easiest places to find it, however, are not always in the boggy areas of the moors but the edges of roads and forest tracks where, with practice, they are quite easily found in flat mats of distinctive greenish-yellow-orange that are tinged orange-red along the edges. If that sounds vague, the description becomes understandable with acquaintance. This sundew’s reputation is built on its form, which is red tendrils on tiny leaves on stalks, glistening with a shiny, sticky dew. It is the dew that traps an insect; once caught, the leaf rolls up and the insect is digested. The scarcer Great Sundew, with its more paddle-shaped leaves, can also be found. Great Sundew trapping a Common Blue Damselfly

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Higher and higher Plants tend to become more specialised in higher environments, although two of the most common, Heather and Wild Thyme, seem to appear almost anywhere. Heather was hugely important to Highlanders in former times – essentially the Swiss Army knife of plants. It is tough, flexible and versatile, and was used for many essential items including rope, bedding, brushes, thatch, a dye for cloth and an ingredient in ale. Thyme has a majestic Gaelic name – Lus mhic righ Bhreatainn, meaning ‘plant of the King of Britain’ – possibly because it was coupled in posies with Maundy money to afford the king protection from the infectious diseases of the poor, and similarly it was often placed under the bed of women for protection in childbirth. There is some credibility in this, as it does have antibacterial, and possibly antifungal, properties. Like other sweetly scented plants, however, it was also thought to contain the souls of the dead. Going higher provides rich rewards as the botany becomes extremely interesting indeed. Scree and rocks create both well-drained and damp conditions. In drier, exposed parts of the central ranges can be found the vulnerable, nationally scarce Northern Rock-cress. It has been recorded on the heights of Ben More, Beinn nan Gabhar and Beinn a’Ghràig. In slightly damper surroundings nestles one of the world’s smallest trees. Barely 5–6 cm tall, Dwarf Willow’s shiny, rounded leaves can be seen all year, with bright red catkins in autumn. Damp scree habitat, in bare wet flushes, is where Cyphel is found: this is the only recorded Alpine species on Mull. Open, stony flushes are the home of another tiny rarity, Hairy Stonecrop, which has fleshy leaves and pink flowers. Scarce at the best of times, it is difficult to find these miniature delights in such habitats – and none more so than the rarest of all, Iceland-purslane, the arctic-subarctic species that in Britain grows only on Skye and Mull.

Northern Rock-cress habitat, Ben More

Iceland-purslane Iceland-purslane (Koenigia islandica) is among the world’s hardiest annual plants. Very few annuals can survive in the Arctic zone. It is a relic of a flora from the end of the last glaciation, now found in the UK only on Skye and Mull. It is recorded at Burg and at one or two other sites on the Ardmeanach Peninsula. Burg is better known as the site of MacCulloch’s fossil tree, which is 55 million years old, and in a sense Iceland-purslane could be viewed as a living fossil. Among the smallest of terrestrial flowering plants, reaching a height of only 5 cm or less, it lay undiscovered on Mull until 1956, after which it was probably regarded as a novelty species of little importance. However, since 1994 it has been recognised as having a significant value as an indicator of climate change and from that time onwards has been closely monitored. Iceland-purslane inhabits exposed and bare, moist or very wet, basalt-gravel screes. Although tiny, it survives competition because the screes are too unstable for larger perennial plants to become established. However, the plant requires the screes to be broken up and shifted by winter erosion to keep the habitat open. As winter temperatures rise in future, conditions may well favour the formation of more stable upland soils, allowing perennial species to become established and the purslane to be squeezed out. Moreover, as an annual plant it has to be able to grow to maturity, flower and set seed in Mull’s cool, damp and very short growing period. Intermittent drought has been found to severely affect its growth, and climate change modelling suggests increases in dry periods during summer. Monitoring of this tiny plant could therefore potentially reveal a lot about climate change impacts, specifically about future challenges faced on Mull, but also in the British Isles as a whole.

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The national flower Having begun with Scotland’s affinity with flowers, it would be remiss to close without mention of Scotland’s national flower – the thistle. Great poetry does not have to be good poetry, and an ode written by an unknown poet, hopefully not Robert Burns (though occasionally attributed to him), says as much as is needed about the relationship between thistles and the Scots. Tae Scots yer mair than just a flower, Yer a symbol o’ great strength an’ power, Wrapped in shades o’ purple an’ green Yer the bonniest flower this land has seen. Legend has it that in the thirteenth century, during the reign in Scotland of King Alexander III, the army of King Haakon of Norway was out to spring a surprise attack on a force of sleeping clansmen at Largs. For reasons of stealth, the Norsemen removed their shoes to creep up on their foes, but in the darkness one trod on a thistle. His anguished cry alerted the Scots, who rose as a man and did what Scots did to invaders in the thirteenth century.

When creeping up on your foe at night, be careful not to tread on the thistles!



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As a reward, the thistle was said to have been thereafter adopted as the symbol of Scotland. It has certainly been an important symbol of nationhood since 1470 when it appeared on King James III of Scotland silver coins. Which species was trodden on we do not know, but the most common on Mull is the Marsh Thistle. This is an important species for pollinators and has been found to produce the most nectar (sugar) per hectare per year of the UK’s 220 commonest flowering plant species. That is seriously impressive. And worthy of a poem.

Cotton Thistle or ‘Scotch thistle’ became the emblem for Scotland after Sir Walter Scott chose it as the emblem for George IV’s visit in 1822. This is despite the fact that this thistle is probably not native but was introduced from Europe prior to the sixteenth century.

Translucent waters around Mull

ELEVEN

Life Beyond the Strandline ‘The sea is as near as we come to another world.’ Anne Stevenson, ‘North Sea off Carnoustie’ (1977)

Look into the sea ‘Strandline’ is a fine word. Better than the emotionless and noncommittal ‘tideline’, strandline is intuitive, more fervent. It is the shallow edge of the unknown, the gathering place of sleepy, do-nothing seals, and haunt of the beachcombers – birds, invertebrates and a few mammals, including ourselves. It is where the sea sifts, spits out or stealthily abandons foreign and used artefacts, and dead things. It is where we stand, captivated by sights, light, rhythms, sounds and smells, always with our back to land, always intent on what the sea will bring in, or what is out towards the horizon. Beyond the strandline is not our element. It belongs to a strange and exotic community of species, many tracking through the vast, featureless ocean with more certainty than we can navigate the city. Below the strandline is the intertidal zone: twice a day, every day, this alternates between submerged and dry, pushed and pulled, washed and windblown. Eternally in a state of flux. We are captivated by the sea, perhaps because it is tinged with more than a hint of mystery, danger and excitement. It is absurdly fertile and potent, indispensable to so much life. Among all of Mull’s rich ecosystems, this is the most biologically diverse. To discover more, it is time to take the plunge, to step over the strandline – into another world.

The intertidal It is said that the resplendent wealth of our marine natural heritage is such a well-hidden secret that we in Britain know more about the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef or the Red Sea than about the native ecology of our own seas. A good time, then, to hail Scotland’s west coast marine life as every bit as sumptuous and diverse as many more-trumpeted places. We should not feign surprise when a diver meets with a Sun-fish – an extraordinary huge animal that can weigh over 1,000 kg – by Inch Kenneth. When boats sight Leatherback Turtles, or a lifeless turtle is washed up at Craignure, are they vagrants from more glamorous climes? These ‘exotics’ may be uncommon, but are not lost. They are known ingredients of our marine mix.

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The ragged coastline of the main island of Mull is more than 300 miles in length, affording hugely diverse intertidal and subtidal habitats, from mighty cliff base to muddy lagoon; sandy beach to boulder-strewn shore; forests of kelp to swaying seagrass. There are sharp-cut distinctions between the south and west of the island, which staunchly resist the pounding weight of the North Atlantic, compared with the east and parts of the north coast, which are more sheltered by their position and proximity to the mainland. This throws up unsuspected contrasts in sea temperature between the extreme west, with an average of 7.5°C change of temperature between midwinter and midsummer, and the east coast with a deviation of around 11.5°C. Each smaller island, be it Iona, Ulva or other inshore islands, has comparable contrasts and a profusion of ecosystems to explore. For insight into the mysterious inhabitants of intertidal shingle and beach, use scientific enquiry. Gently scrape away the surface layers to reveal the mud-sand. What is exposed is a bewilderingly rich other world, teeming with micro-food. This is why so many shorebirds thrive in such an apparently barren environment. The lowest part of the intertidal zone is the one submerged for the most time, and here

Black Beach



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more substantial and varied species flourish. A survey of the Staffa group of islands vividly summarised, in two sentences, a subtidal mark just beyond the intertidal on Little Colonsay: Turning over rocks revealed an abundance of porcelain crabs and Risso’s crab, and a smaller number of juvenile edible crabs and shore crabs plus green sea urchins, cushion stars [a starfish], and Butterfish. Undersides of rocks and boulders plus vertical and overhanging sides of bedrock ridges, had a good cover of encrusting sponges, juvenile tube worms, encrusting sea squirts and small hydroids [tiny jellyfish]. (Dipper 2018) This is the gourmet larder from which exotic menus are served up to a host of different species, people among them, and it contains authentic wonders, sometimes literally at our feet.

Green Shore Crab, Dervaig

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The appliance of science Humans have always taken an extravagant harvest from the sea, although Mull’s Mesolithic nomads garnered what was easily available, which meant limpets. Today, these humble molluscs – along with their bedfellows, barnacles – are harvested for science. Barnacles are unlikely relatives of shrimps, and how careless we are of complex and indispensable life forms such as the Acorn Barnacle. We pay them no regard as we casually trample colonies of them underfoot, yet Charles Darwin thought it worth investing eight years to the study of barnacles whilst developing his theories of natural selection. These tiny shellfish have both male and female sex organs, and to reproduce they grow a long retractable tube containing the sperm, the end of which can feel around outside the shell until it finds a receptive barnacle to fertilise. They live stuck to the place where they made their home as a larva, feeding underwater using feathery legs called cirri. The cirri emerge, through doors that open like the silos of tiny nuclear bunkers, to sift minute foods from the water. Any of these attributes alone shout out for attention, but they may yet make a contribution to the human world that could revolutionise an everyday commodity. Barnacles stick themselves to whatever they can, even whales, using a secretion that, when mixed with salt from seawater, forms one of the most powerful glues in nature, so effective that it is being considered for commercial applications including dentistry. Acorn Barnacles, Port na Ba



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In almost every respect a limpet is different, though it too has a highly desirable peculiarity with boundless commercial possibilities. It is actually a snail and, like other snails, it grazes, using teeth now identified as the strongest biological material ever tested – even stronger than most artificial substances, including Kevlar. Like barnacle glue, limpets are being widely studied to establish how properties of these teeth might be replicated for human use. Limpets scrape algae off rocks, and to do this they happily perambulate when under water, always returning to precisely the same position on their rock before the tide leaves them high and dry. They cannot survive in any other place. When the tide recedes they need to retain moisture in order to breathe and avoid dehydration, so they must make a watertight and airtight seal between their shell and the exact place on the rock where they live. To achieve this, they grind their shell on the rock, either gradually wearing soft rock to make an exact fit with their shell or, on hard rock, grinding their shell to perfectly fit the substrate’s contours. This makes a limpet vulnerable if it is knocked off its rock and placed elsewhere. It will not be able to find its way back, and will almost certainly perish, but if left in place this intrepid gastropod may live for up to 20 years. Limpets and barnacles

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Foraging and farming Due to their chewiness, limpets are not widely eaten nowadays but, with good husbandry, there is no reason not to continue cropping a range of other species from the sea. Most are animals, but many people also swear by edible seaweeds (perhaps Sugar Kelp, Dulce or Sea Lettuce) for a surprising range of purposes, from soups and chutneys to flavourings in cupcakes. On a larger scale, they are used in fertilisers and compost ingredients and there is now a 6-hectare community-owned Sugar Kelp farm. However, unlike the extensive period of kelp processing during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the commercial use of seaweed on Mull today is slight, certainly when compared to other marine species. Apparently, the record for the farthest a human has spat a winkle (known as a whelk or buckie in Scotland) was 10.4 m – but that was a Frenchman. The pragmatic Muileachs tend to use them for food rather than recreation, and a small industry survives picking winkles for market. Scotland exports over 2,000 tonnes per year, and there are probably more people on Mull taking a small income from winkles than there are from the more lucrative, upmarket oyster-farming. But such engagement pales into insignificance when compared to Mull’s mussel and salmon farming industries. The frequent presence of shellfish-eating Eider ducks near mussel farms is testament to the latter’s unbridled success. Mussels are relatively easily grown on ropes, in a sustainable and profitable manner that is said to actually purify surrounding waters. Salmon farms, on the other hand, have a huge output but the industry has attracted



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substantial criticism for practices deployed to grow vast numbers of fish in pens in the open sea. It is to be hoped that any problems that salmon farms have will be sufficiently addressed so as not to compromise either fish welfare or surrounding ecosystems. Historically there are references to the now scarce Herring shoals, Sgaothan Sgadain or ‘Silver Darlings’, being abundant, even in the sea lochs. This prompted an attempt in 1788 by the British Fisheries Society to build a fishing industry around a new settlement in Tobermory. This met with little success, partly because it was too far from the market in Oban, and partly due to the local landowner, the economically astute Duke of Argyll, who was said to be more interested in using the financial subsidies to attract a ‘better class’ of resident who might be more useful in making Tobermory a trading port. The most honest cause of failure, however, may have been pinpointed by James MacDonald who, by 1811, was reporting that ‘Mull is by no means favoured with frequent visits from Herring shoals; on the contrary, it is very seldom that any appear at all in its lochs’. Lack of fish can be a considerable hindrance to a fishing port, although Herring were certainly present a little further afield. Fortunately there are now small signs of them making a return to traditional breeding grounds around the nearby mainland. Meanwhile, Mackerel have filled the gap for nature, arriving in numbers around July to sustain some of the top predators.

Oyster farming, Croig

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The romance of the creel Despite the absence of great shoals of finned fish, redoubtable small boats from Mull maintain the tradition of wresting a livelihood from the sea through creel fishing. Lobsters and crabs, both Brown Crab and Velvet Crab, are plentiful all around the island. There has long been a demand for these species, although stocks across Scotland may have been depleted in the nineteenth century. In 1890, two eminent scientists, Messrs Brook and Calderwood, ‘set themselves to restore our [Scotland’s] shell fisheries to their former condition’, with a proposal to construct, at Lochbuie, a ‘lobster pond’ with apparatus for hatching and rearing lobsters, at an estimated cost of £400. Whatever the state of fisheries elsewhere, the historic method of creel fishing on Mull never diminished, and the island’s waters have continued to deliver without needing to be seeded by artificial means. Today, in addition to lobsters and crabs, creel fishing has been extended to prawns. For passing townsfolk, a pile of creels on a harbour wall is a romantic photo opportunity, a chance to capture the essence of hardy, salty fishermen and their small boats prospecting out in the ‘briny’. In reality commercial creel fishing is a tough business, subject to the vagaries of the weather and the whims of the ocean. It can have fallow times, but also bring rewards. Creels are more selective and less damaging to the prawns and their environment than trawling, and creel-caught prawns have a reputation for being bigger and better than trawled ones, commanding a higher price, albeit in foreign markets. This story of adding value to a catch through manual fishing is continued with hand-dived King Scallops supplied to high end restaurants around the UK. Scallops are familiar as the logo for Shell Oil, but they are notable for another reason. King Scallop and Queen Scallop (a separate species) occupy a similar substrate to prawns, and have the peculiar ability to swim and jump, either to escape predators or to relocate. They do this by opening their shells and ‘clapping’ them shut, expelling water in powerful bursts that recall jet propulsion. The adductor is the muscle that enables them to do this and is the part that is eaten. Creels at Aros Pier



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The Nephrops or ‘prawn’ The Norway Lobster (genus Nephrops) – a small, pink member of the lobster family – lives in burrows on the seabed and can do so, surprisingly, for 15 years. Worthless, disdained and discarded 40 years ago by whitefish trawlers, it has subsequently been reinvented as prawn, scampi or langoustine, thereby blossoming into the most desirable and valuable catch for fishing boats on the west coast of Scotland. Shy and inconspicuous in its burrow during the day, the lobster comes to life at night, emerging to scavenge, mainly on small crustaceans and molluscs. This is when it is caught, either through trawling or creel fishing. In common with other lobsters, it has a rigid exoskeleton that must be shed or moulted before the animal can grow. At this stage, which perhaps lasts two weeks, the Nephrops is very soft and vulnerable so will stay hidden until it has developed a new hard shell. Within the first few years of its life, as it grows to full size, the lobster will shed its shell many times. However, as it gets to full growth, it will moult quite rarely, perhaps only once a year. One of the remarkable outcomes of this process, and a key survival mechanism, is that each time the lobster makes a new exoskeleton it can also regenerate damaged or lost body parts, including claws, eyes and antenna. Although not altogether a unique skill in the natural world, this is nevertheless an attribute of which many ‘more advanced’ species might be envious!

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Murder most foul In general, Mull’s marine harvest is garnered by small-scale, low-impact and sustainable fishing. However, some large dredgers, incomers less concerned about the long-term state of the local environment, stand accused of scraping the sea floor, taking their crop and leaving behind a degraded ecology. This is a lesson that should have been learned 50 years ago when, for similar reasons, any semblance of a local finned-fish industry died. Changes had long been apparent in seas around the British Isles which culminated during the early 1980s in vivid events being witnessed. In those days, around Easter, the local Atlantic Cod population would gather to spawn on ground in the Sea of the Hebrides. They were discovered by roving ‘factory’ trawlers and, in the words of local anglers: ‘A massive free-for-all resulted. In a few murderous March and April fishings, a population of fish that had sustained local crofting communities through war and famine, was gone.’ Not only Atlantic Cod and Herring, but economically viable stocks of Haddock and Whiting disappeared, fished out in line with a nationwide picture. However, if not in the same numbers, sport fishing does still connect with a wide range of species, including Pollack, Coley, Coalfish, Conger Eel, Wrasse, Spurdog, Thornback Ray, some Tope and the redoubtable Flapper Skate, the latter sometimes Fishing boats at port, Tobermory



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weighing an impressive 90 kg or more. The Flapper Skate accounts for the designation of an area in the Sound of Mull as a Marine Protected Area (MPA), intended to conserve particular species and the marine environment in general.

Why conservation? In 2009 it was discovered that the ‘Common Skate’ was actually two different species, subsequently named the Flapper Skate and the Blue Skate. The latter is slightly smaller and more likely to be found towards the southern reaches of Ireland, though they do overlap in distribution. The MPA for the Flapper Skate has the express aim of saving this threatened population from precipitous decline. The species was once found around the entire British coastline but overfishing throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries reduced the world’s largest skate to a British population that encompassed only Northern Ireland, the west coast of Scotland and Orkney. Skates are very sedentary, the females being likely to spend all their lives in a single area, and the Sound of Mull is among the most important of those areas. This is a slow-growing species, sometimes reaching 3 m in length, and taking at least 11 years to reach sexual maturity makes them vulnerable to overfishing or environmental degradation. Some breeding males are believed to migrate to the MPA from further afield where they are less likely to be afforded protection. Within the MPA fishing vessels are expressly banned from landing skate, and anglers must return them unharmed – sometimes after recording the tags that many fish now carry for research purposes or tagging them anew. This protection of habitats within the MPA network can, theoretically, offer wider benefits than simply for the particular species that they are intended to conserve. Taking care of kelp forests, for example, allows for small crustaceans and worms to live among the branching holdfasts, while sponge species might adhere to the plant surfaces, and small fish find shelter from predators among the seaweed blades. In some shallower waters seagrass beds provide similar functions or provide nurseries for finned fish to breed in, though MPA protection will not safeguard seagrass from the highly invasive Wireweed that has recently found its way from the Pacific, via Europe, to Mull, where its distribution is growing. A further particularly important and scarce (although probably under-recorded) seabed species is maerl. This pinkish, hard seaweed forms carpets of spiky ‘maerl beds’ by depositing calcareous lime in its cell walls, which fixes carbon dioxide as calcium carbonate as it grows. This fulfils a dual role, creating a hard yet brittle protective skeleton for the maerl, whilst simultaneously helping to mitigate climate change. The maerl beds provide a sheltered home for many animals such as sea cucumbers, varieties of worm, urchins and anemones, but are notable as the preferred nursery environment for scallops – which therefore renders them

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especially vulnerable to damage from scallop-dredging. The presence of maerl beds offshore can be detected by quantities of bleached dead fragments of maerl being found on beaches, where they are often mistaken for coral. The fragments may indicate damage from the kind of fishing that the MPAs are supposed to constrain. To designate protection is one thing, but lack of policing has allowed abuse of MPAs to continue. The presence of maerl around the shores of Mull may be seen when disturbed beds are broken up and fragments are washed up by the tides – typically as small coral-like fragments – seen here at Port na Ba



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Basking Shark Come May each year, the biggest fish in the Earth’s oceans after the Whale Shark starts moving north up the seas west of the British Isles. The Basking Shark is heading for its summer home in the Hebrides, where it knows there will be a good supply of zooplankton. This gentle giant, weighing several tonnes and measuring up to 12 m long, was hunted sporadically in the Hebrides for 200 years for the oil generated by its liver. Hunting increased after the Second World War and the last shark fishery was operational in Scotland until as late as 1995. Today, however, the Basking Shark is a protected species and it is possible that individuals may live for up to 100 years. It feeds while cruising along near the surface with only the dorsal fin and top of the tail fin above the water. Drifting with its enormous mouth agape, it filters well over one million litres of seawater through its gills every hour. Basking Sharks are best seen from a chartered boat, whence the opportunity to respectfully snorkel in their company must be high on many people’s to-do list. Failing this, on occasions they come very close to land in the north of Mull and can be seen clearly on a good day. Some of the best views can be had using binoculars from Caliach Point. Choose a calm, bright day between mid-July and mid-August, and you may be lucky enough to see not one or two, but a stream of sharks, like a line of buses, rigidly tracing the visible food line of the plankton. With great luck you may even see them breach, powering out of the water and creating a tidal wave on re-entry. Unforgettable!

Basking Shark with Eigg and Rum in the background

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The Puffing Pig’s burden Notwithstanding such problems, another MPA now covers the seas across the Inner Hebrides and the Minches. In this instance the designation is intended to safeguard a currently robust population of Harbour Porpoise, explicitly to prevent it from becoming threatened. The area has the species’ highest density in Scotland, around one-third of the total population of the west coast. Porpoises are seen only rarely in large groups. They tend to spurn company, but are nevertheless sexually quite promiscuous, females becoming reproductively mature around four years of age, with males a little later. In the summer mating season, a male’s testes have been found to enlarge up to almost 7% of his total weight, a burden not shared by other cetaceans and one for which he fortunately is relieved for the rest of the year when he has to remain very active simply to feed himself. Because porpoises have a high metabolic rate and live in cool waters, they need to feed day and night, mainly on small fish, to sustain themselves. Each day, a Harbour Porpoise will eat as much as 10% of its own body weight, though it is not dietary habits that give rise to its alternative name, the ‘Puffing Pig’ but rather the snorting noise that it makes as it breathes. One interesting feature of this MPA is that the statement accompanying it, in addition to emphasising the conservation benefits to the porpoise, is clear about the need to maintain the MPA so that people can benefit, both economically and in aesthetic terms, from viewing the porpoises. In short, it is an expression of the importance of marine tourism for Mull provided by its many porpoises, dolphins and whales.

Common Dolphins in flight, north of Mull



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Who’s watching whom? A charming thing about dolphins, and some whales as well, is the alert attention that they will pay to people. We sometimes give animals unwarranted human characteristics but unlike porpoises, which steer well clear of people, dolphins genuinely do seem to be inquisitive and interested in the human world. To stand on the prow of a boat close to the waterline and witness a bow-riding dolphin flip on to its side and make eye contact is a moment of magic that only nature can produce. The dolphin does not have to be there, and neither do you, but in that instant there is some kind of species-to-species connection. It is usually quite a fleeting exchange, and the dolphin will be the one to break the link, returning to its real business, which is usually food. Why dolphins bow-ride in the first place is not known. It is hard to imagine that it is done for any reason other than play, but it has been suggested that this is behaviour learned from accompanying large feeding whales, to benefit from any leftover morsels of fish confused or stunned by the lunging whale. Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie portrayed the intensity of these engagements when she summed up the thrill of her own trip out from Tobermory and a rendezvous with large animals in the open sea: Then the dolphins arrived, you may say, out of the blue. We were moving in wide zig-zags, seeing what we could see, and then suddenly they were all about us, port and starboard, bow and stern, aligned with the boat and travelling at pace with us, leaping and diving … When they breached they were almost close enough to touch. With one fluid movement, they’d arch clear of the water, breathe, then the blow-hole closed, the fin followed, and down they went. “Babies! Oh, for God’s sake, will you look at the babies!” … We clapped and shouted and cheered.

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Short-beaked Common Dolphins can materialise at any time, increasingly often in winter, though they are mainly summer visitors that follow shoals of fish – albeit a little too closely in the case of the pod of 19 that enthusiastically chased a shoal of Mackerel up the beach at Laggan Sands and found themselves stranded. Fortunately, most were helped safely back into the water. This dolphin is a lovely, splashy animal, no more than 2 m long, that is normally seen in groups of 20–30 but has been known to form ‘super-pods’ several hundred strong, when fish are numerous. The flanks are marked with a distinctive hourglass pattern, tinged with grey, white and yellow. Cropping up anywhere in the inshore waters around Mull, the Bottlenose Dolphin is the dolphin species most easily seen, in undulating formation, from land. It is roughly twice the size of the Common Dolphin, more akin to a small whale, and tends to move in an appropriately slow, stately way. That said, Bottlenose Dolphins can show urgency, such as one memorable time when a group trapped a shoal of Mackerel against the keel of a boat harbouring the author, and harried their quarry mercilessly. The probable inshore British population of this species is only around 300, so an established community present throughout the year around Mull is a rare distinction. One can never predict which other dolphin species might put in an appearance, and some might be surprised both that a few Orcas are present and that they are actually members of the dolphin family, but the more likely seen is Risso’s Dolphin. Almost the size of the Bottlenose, it is distinguished by a strange bulbous head. However, Risso’s is seen less often because it feeds mainly at night on squid that rise to the surface, prefers the deeper sea where its prey lives and is not prone to bow-riding.

Life, death and discovery Until the latter part of the twentieth century, the suggestion that there were big numbers of whales around the British coast was taken with a large pinch of salt and a snort of derision. A sometime farmer and boatman from Quinish (on Mull), Richard ‘Popz’ Fairbairns had been having close encounters with Minke Whales and other cetaceans. In 1982, he decided to establish a whale watching business, an enterprise about which his wife subsequently wrote. She recalled that the Tourist Board initially accused him of trying to hoodwink people with ‘false promises and a disregard for the Trade Descriptions Act’. The endeavour eventually led to the formation of the first marine research centre in the UK, the Mull Cetacean Project. In 1994 this became the Hebridean Whale and Dolphin Trust (HWDT), based in Tobermory, with the purpose of studying and conserving cetaceans around the west coast of Scotland. Since then, 24 species of cetaceans have been recorded. The whales are, of course, regarded as the apex species. Although most are recorded as



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irregular sojourners, they tend to move quickly and dive deep, so that surprisingly often we are not aware of their presence at all until something unfortunate happens to them. At this point, without wishing to be morbid, death at least provides a window into their secretive world. Sightings of Long-finned Pilot Whales tend to be rare, but when they happen, they are spectacular as they usually travel in groups. Their preferred food is squid, for which they will dive to 600 m or more. The sizeable imprint of a sucker on the nose of a pilot whale that beached itself at Calgary Bay in 2018 is testimony to the resistance put up by a large squid before becoming whale dinner. These whales have a particular claim to fame in that they have more brain neurons related to sight and hearing than any other mammal. Indeed, they have twice as many as humans, although we probably do not need to hone this attribute as much as an animal that has to maintain contact with its companions and family in a vast ocean, and locate its food at great depth in darkness. Humpback Whales pass through the area. Though a sad and regrettable occurrence, a young individual discovered drowned under salmon cages in the Sound of Mull gave a rare opportunity for an autopsy. Similarly, a Cuvier’s Beaked Whale that Beached Minke Whale, Tiroran

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stranded and died in 2019, again on Calgary beach, was subject to a post-mortem on site, which provided a fascinating insight into the physiology of an animal with all the same basic organs and skeletal features as a human, but adapted to dive to a depth of almost 3,000 m and stay underwater for more than three and a half hours. These are the deepest and the longest dives on record for any mammal. Cuvier’s Beaked Whales are thought to be particularly susceptible to sonar interference, and are also normally a species of very deep seas, a combination thought to compromise them during periods of intensive naval manoeuvres and potentially linked to many deaths over time. Suspicion, though no proof, arose in the case of around 100 whales that washed up along the west of Scotland and Ireland in 2018, including several on Mull, which far exceeded the normal annual total of strandings (around 6 or 7). Clearly this is a relatively common species that we still need to better understand if it is not to become compromised by human interference.

Identity parade On a brighter note, there is no finer sight out on the ocean than the silver plate of a flat calm sea, pelagic birds crowded together on the water, and the slow rise and fall of a Minke Whale’s back arching in preparation for its next dive in search of sand eels or Mackerel. Minkes are Britain’s smallest baleen whale, which is to say that they only reach a ‘paltry’ 10 m in length (getting on for the length of the Tobermory Topper bus). Baleen whales do not have teeth, but rather baleen plates grown from keratin, the same fibrous protein as human hair, in the top jaw. The whale feeds by taking in water containing its prey fish and then expelling the water through the baleen, which filters and retains the food inside the mouth. Minke Whales commonly appear from April to October and are most numerous around Mull between June and September. Although little is known about their migratory habits, they seem to breed in tropical waters. The HWDT is able to track individual whales by photo identification of their dorsal fins, and with an image library of more than 250 individual Minke Whales, this tells some interesting stories. Some whales have become celebrities, frequenting more or less the same areas each year and one, nicknamed Knobble, even has its own Facebook page. First photographed in 2002, it remains unknown whether Knobble is a ‘he’ or a ‘she’. Another, known as Kasey, has been photographed since 2000, a long-standing character in the story of how data is being gradually stockpiled to fuel our understanding of marine species.



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The West Coast Killer Whales Until 2016, there were nine Killer Whales (or Orcas) in a pod known as the West Coast Community, which had frequented the waters of Mull for years. At the time of writing only two are now seen. One is a legendary and very distinctive whale, nicknamed John Coe (below). His companion is known as Aquarius. In 2016, a pod member first observed in 1995 and given the name Lulu was found dead on the island of Coll after becoming entangled in rope. Although an adult, she died without having produced a calf. An autopsy showed that this animal – at the apex of the marine food chain and living on a diet of porpoise, dolphin, whale and seal – was carrying one of the highest concentrations of toxic pollutants ever recorded in a marine mammal. This included 950 mg/kg of polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs), more than 100 times the 9 mg/kg limit above which damage to the health of marine mammals is known to occur. Infertility due to PCBs was presumed to be the reason why the pod has produced no young since first being observed. This may well be the cause, but there is another twist to the story. Analysis of DNA showed that this particular pod’s nearest relatives live not in the North Atlantic at all but in the Southern Oceans, preying on Minke Whales from the Antarctic. It seems that the West Coast pod, or its predecessors, had sometime travelled north and become isolated from its kin. The members are different from other pods in the Atlantic in appearance, size, communication and diet – and neither interact nor breed with them. John Coe is one of the ocean’s intrepid travellers, recognisable by his distinctive dorsal fin where a shark is believed to have bitten off a chunk. (History does not record what happened to the shark.) Over 50 years old, he is approaching the end of his life, but hopefully his story, and that of his family, will live on as a salutary reminder of the damage that we inflict upon nature. John Coe

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Really common? We already know quite a lot about the Common Seal (Harbour Seal) and the Grey Seal. Despite their names, and the fact that the lugubrious Grey Seal is one of the rarest seal species in the world, it is the Grey Seal which is the more common in Scotland. Both can be seen regularly from the shore, indolently lounging on the skerries for hours on end, careless but not carefree, likely to flop and lunge for the water immediately should a passing boat or kayak venture too close, yet then often inquisitively surfacing close by, all whiskery curiosity for the interloper into their territory. Although the total population of Grey Seals worldwide is estimated at only 400,000, approximately 140,000 of those are in Scotland. Their status in the Inner Hebrides is rather healthier than reported in 1892 by John Harvie-Brown as being ‘a very rare object’ and often persecuted, so much so that he declined to give the localities of seal colonies for fear that ‘certain classes of people with none of the true naturalist, and little of the true sportsman, in their compositions, are always ready to make a bad use of such information instead of a good one’. Grey Seals are distinguished by their size, up to 2.5 m and 300 kg in the case of the bulls, with a long, sloping ‘Roman’ nose. Grey Seals may also have the more inquisitive nature, quite commonly bobbing along watching people on the shoreline or in boats. The Treshnish Isles hold one of the seal’s most important breeding populations, famously the subject of a study by the renowned naturalist Frank Fraser Darling, who camped on Lunga with his family in 1937. He did write about



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his stay, but may have had more to say had his notes not been eaten by mice. The seals give birth in autumn and winter, often in the teeth of ferocious weather, and their young are easily distinguishable during the first two or three weeks of life by their luxurious, creamy-white protective coats. Around one-third of Europe’s 100,000 Common Seals are in the UK, though the population is notoriously difficult to count. According to figures from the Sea Mammal Research Unit, Scotland held over 25,000 Common Seals in 2016. This is the smaller of the two species at around 1.5 m. The male is slightly larger than the female, mainly grey or a mottled brown, though their colouration can be varied. Many people think that Common Seals are the more appealing, having a rounder face and large, soft brown eyes reminiscent of a Labrador puppy. They give birth around June and July, and the pups are able to swim immediately. On a diet of the mother’s rich milk, they can double their birth weight during their first three or four weeks, but poor weather can lead to a lot of mortalities if pups get separated from their mothers whilst they are still suckling.

Warming, cooling and capture Although the Hebrides are notorious for storms and constantly shifting weather fronts, the weather beating in from the Atlantic has become even more capricious in recent years. Climate change may well be affecting the ocean around Mull in more telling ways than it is the land, at least in the short term. Species of non-native marine plants are already working their way north, though it is too early to say what

Grey Seals, with an inquisitive Oystercatcher, off Lunga

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impact this may have on indigenous species. There have already been discernible changes in the sand eel populations around parts of the UK, while other fish migration and breeding patterns may well alter in ways that will certainly affect pelagic birds and the larger ocean fauna. Exotic species of fish are also being seen with more frequency. For example, an increase in sea temperatures of around 1°C in the last 30 years has made the Grey Triggerfish, usually a Mediterranean species, quite common around England and Wales in recent years. There have now been several sightings near Mull: although presumed not yet to be a breeding species, it is thought to be only a matter of time. However, species change may be the least of concerns in the longer term. Although current thinking does not suggest that the Gulf Stream is likely to cease to function in the foreseeable future, there is a growing consensus that it will slow or weaken. The problem is that it is not known whether this will cause cooling or heating in its North Atlantic sphere of influence. It seems that it is unlikely to remain the same, and climate variations will at some stage almost certainly have a significant impact upon the natural history of the Hebrides and western Scotland. With this in mind, from a surprising source, the International Monetary Fund (IMF), comes the suggestion that whales could be part of a possible solution. The ‘great whales’, which include Minkes, accumulate around 33 tonnes of CO2 in a 60-year lifespan. When they die, they sink to the ocean bed where the carbon is locked away for hundreds of years. By comparison, a tree absorbs up to 22 kg of CO2/year. Furthermore, whales also have a role in increasing phytoplankton productivity due to a phenomenon called the ‘whale pump’. As the whales are active across the oceans, iron and nitrogen in their waste provides ideal growing conditions for the microscopic phytoplankton. A huge asset of these minute organisms is that they contribute more than 50% of all the Earth’s oxygen and capture an estimated 37 billion tonnes (40%) of all CO2. The IMF calculates that the CO2 captured by phytoplankton is equivalent to that captured by 1.7 trillion trees – the equivalent of four Amazon rainforests! According to the report, a 1% increase in phytoplankton productivity linked to whale activity could mean the capture of hundreds of millions of tons of additional CO2 a year, the equivalent to two billion mature trees. This is a compelling argument for helping Knobble, Kasey and the rest of the world’s whale population to multiply.

Salmon cages, near Ulva

Social wasp flying towards a figwort, Dervaig

TWELVE

Beautiful Beasties ‘If all the insects were to disappear from the earth, within 50 years all life on earth would end. If all human beings disappeared from the earth, within 50 years all forms of life would flourish.’ Jonas Salk, virologist and inventor of the Polio vaccine

Our beating heart Mull is a stronghold for an absurdly large number of extremely rare (and some unimaginably resplendent) invertebrates. Few conversations about Mull’s biodiversity begin with insects or, to use the vernacular, ‘beasties’, yet they are much more than the supporting cast for the island’s stardust-sprinkled celebrity species. Only when recoiling from invertebrates or punishing them for annoying us do we give them serious attention. They must be the most neglected of all wildlife. In ecological terms invertebrates are without peer but, barring a few achingly beautiful butterflies, they lack charisma – the spark to ignite our interest. In truth, that spark should be incandescent, for they are the beating heart of all life everywhere, with few plants, reptiles, fish, mammals or birds able to survive without them. In reality, whilst Mull itself is a pot of gold at the end of the invertebrate rainbow, around the globe we turn a blind eye to the dark clouds gathering over the world of insects. Who remembers the Splatometer? In 2004, the RSPB undertook a survey in which 40,000 car drivers used a cardboard grid placed over their vehicle number plate to count the number of squashed insects. Fifteen years later a similar study, again deploying the Splatometer, recorded 50% fewer impacts. This backed up estimates that insects worldwide have suffered a 25% decline in numbers in the last 30 years, with falls in over 40% of species in the 10 years to 2020. The UK, which is more intensely studied than most, has recorded even bigger falls. This is the measure against which Mull’s full complement of beautiful beasties must be judged. As each year goes by, it becomes more important that the depth and quality of the island’s biodiversity be sustained, and that Mull continues as a wellspring of optimism. That having been said, there are insect species with which we simply cannot get along. As the American poet, Ogden Nash, put it: ‘God in His wisdom made the fly, and then forgot to tell us why.’ Love some, loathe some; care for them one minute – persecute them the next.

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Feeling the buzz There is often no logic to this love-hate relationship. A ‘yellowjacket’ wasp in the house, dressed in its smart yellow and black ‘keep-away’ colours, is as likely to get walloped with a rolled-up newspaper as to gain its freedom. The poor old wasp does not have many friends, yet as it forensically searches for nectar for energy it is diligently pollinating flowers and, as a consummate predator, it plays a pivotal role in containing the numbers of potential pest insects, such as caterpillars and aphids, which are quite capable of reaching plague proportions. Wasps in the UK might account for an estimated 14 million kg of insect prey every year. Surely that is a reason for the odd nod of thanks? Illogically, people direct their love instead towards Mull’s carder bees and Whitetailed Bumblebees, and all the other comfortingly furry bumblebees. This would make more sense if it were a response to an incomparable talent that they display as they buzz busily from flower to flower. Their wings beat impressively quickly, 130 or more times per second, and this ‘extreme’ beating, combined with their large bodies, vibrates the flower heads so much that they are persuaded to release much more pollen to bumblebees than to other species. This has a name, ‘buzz pollination’, and it results in plants bearing much more fruit than they would otherwise. Bumblebees are so good at it that they collect pollen 400 times faster than Honey Bees. Given the blessings provided equally by both bees and wasps, it might be worth a moment’s pause when reaching for the rolled-up newspaper. Common Carder Bee – wild and domestic come together in a Dervaig garden



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The nomad bee Many more of the 265+ British solitary bee species are likely to inhabit Mull than are currently recorded. However, solitary bees require a higher level of expertise to survey and identify than other species of bee. The following tale illustrates this very well. Nomad bees are small- to medium-sized solitary bees that, in shape if not always in colour, look quite wasp-like. They are known as kleptoparasites or ‘cuckoo bees’, meaning that they are bad news for the species that they parasitise. Like the Cuckoo, they lay an egg in a specific host bee’s nest and their larvae steal the food that was meant for those of the host bees. The Flat-ridged Nomad Bee (Nomada obtusifrons) is parasitic upon, and lays eggs only in the nest of, the solitary Small Flecked Mining Bee (Andrena coitana). The Nomada enters the Andrena’s nest while the owner is off foraging and lays her egg in a depression in the cell wall. The egg is sculpted to resemble the surface of the wall so that the Andrena is oblivious to it. When it hatches, the Nomada larva destroys the host egg or young larva with powerful, modified mandibles which, after the dastardly deed has been accomplished, it subsequently loses. Nomada obtusifrons has been recorded on very few occasions in the UK and only once on Mull, in 2014. It was therefore expected that Andrena coitana must be present on the island too, even though it was not recorded at the time. Sure enough, it turned up four years later, but in a completely different part of the island, suggesting that both species are not only present, but in all likelihood relatively well dispersed around the island. Another component of Mull’s natural history was slipped quietly into place.

Flat-ridged Nomad Bee

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An unknown quantity There are 24 species of bumblebee in Britain, and over 265 species of solitary bee, but they are woefully under-recorded. At the time of writing, the NBN Atlas has confirmed records for only 25 species of bee on Mull, of which 18 are bumblebees, five are nomad bees, one is a mining bee and one is the Honey Bee. However, citizen scientists play an enormous part in collating data about nature. One individual on Mull (who blogs at http://treshnishbirdlog.co.uk) has demonstrated how much work needs to be done by compiling his own records of 40 species up to May 2018. They comprised 19 bumblebees, five nomad bees, nine mining bees (so-called because they tunnel), one blood bee (with a red abdomen), three sweat bees (so-called because they are often attracted to sweat), one mason bee (which uses mud to seal its nest), one plasterer bee (which secretes a lining for the nest cell) and the ubiquitous Honey Bee. Subsequently, in June 2019, there was a verified record on Ulva of possibly the UK’s rarest bumblebee, the Great Yellow Bumblebee. This, and disparate reports from elsewhere, suggest that the total number of bee species on Mull will soon increase again. A good news/bad news story about the island’s bees relates to the war being waged on Britain’s Honey Bees by the Varroa Mite, which can only reproduce in a Honey Bee colony and is a vector for at least five dangerous bee viruses. Hive infestations by the mite can destroy a whole colony of bees, with profound consequences for agriculture, which is heavily reliant upon Honey Bees to pollinate food crops. The good news is that beekeepers on Mull adhere to a voluntary code not to import any queen bees from either the mainland or other islands, except for Colonsay, because these are two of the few places in the UK still free of Varroa Mite. Honey Bees in hive



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Figures are often bandied around about how much bees are worth to the agricultural economy. Friends of the Earth recently quoted a UK figure of £1.8 bn per annum, but less easily quantified are bees’ relationships with wild species of plants. With only minimal arable crops on Mull, the great value of bees to the island lies in the part that they play in maintaining the vast array of plants and fruits that donate so many crucial strands to the web of biodiversity. How does one put a price on that?

There’s money in dung (beetles) The monetisation of nature is a controversial topic, but the touchstone for everything in human terms seems to be the economic cost or benefit that accrues, regardless of whether it is freely given or acquired. So, it’s time to talk dung. Despite dung beetles saving the UK cattle industry an estimated £367 million/year, our trade with them is not equitable. Their decline is ignored as if they are invisible. They certainly exist on Mull, contributing to the island’s agriculture and ecology, yet the NBN Atlas database has no records of any species on the island. Whilst eating dung is not a particularly attractive trait to us, we should embrace the humble dung beetles, because their plight reflects our neglect of species to which we owe an enormous debt. Dung beetles’ value lies in their role in improving grassland by burrowing in soil, aerating it and allowing rainwater and nutrients into the ground, and by fertilising the land when burying dung. It really is humbling to witness a 10-mm-long Dor Beetle heaving and pushing a ball of sheep’s droppings, 10 or 20 times its volume, down one of Mull’s farm tracks on our behalf. Coloured black with a beautiful petroleum-blue iridescence, Dor Beetles excavate burrows with tunnels and nesting chambers underground. The chambers are filled with dung balls for the larva to eat, and the female beetle lays one egg in each chamber before it is topped off with more dung and sealed with clay. Both adults and larvae eat the dung and the parasites within, the latter being harmful to livestock (another reason to better understand and take care of Dor Beetles). These insects are in serious trouble, meaning bad news for farmers and domestic herbivores, but also for such as the declining Greater Horseshoe Bat (sadly absent from Mull), which feeds on them. Every insect has value.

Mythical creatures Dung beetles exemplify species that we accept as commonplace, yet provide critical links in the circle of life. Sometimes, however, nature throws up species that defy credibility. Alice’s meeting with a unicorn in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking

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Glass leads the unicorn to suggest: ‘Now that we have seen each other, if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you.’ Unicorns have been variously described picturesquely as ‘amazing creatures’, ‘hard to catch’ and ‘very rare finds’. What better description of butterflies? Like Alice’s unicorn, we see and believe in them, even though they seem pure fantasy. Their dazzling doodle-patterned designer wings, seemingly purposeless, madcap aerial manoeuvres and absurdly flimsy frame mark them as being a flight of imagination. Are these Mull’s unicorns? Although the island holds many beauties that are quite common, such as the Peacock, Small Tortoiseshell and the migratory Red Admiral, it is also home to species that are exceedingly rare, almost mythical, elsewhere. There are two species for which there have been unverified sightings: the Chequered Skipper, which is recorded in the UK exclusively in central and western Scotland; and the dark and handsome Purple Hairstreak, which is moving into southern and central Scotland. If it has not happened already, it is probably only a matter of time before climate change brings another species, the Comma, which has been gradually extending its range northwards. If these three ‘probables’ are added to the verified species, Mull is home to 26 of Scotland’s 33 species. Of these, seven species are cited as scarce or threatened in the UK. Top of the list, a truly memorable rarity for those fortunate enough to find it, is the Marsh Fritillary. However, although it is nationally endangered, on Mull it is not as scarce as the Pearl-bordered Fritillary. The latter really does have mythical status, last being recorded in a small and remote colony on a steep, south-facing coastal slope on the Ross of Mull. It is possible Pearl-bordered Fritillary that other colonies exist, but it is rather restricted in its choices, its larvae (in Scotland) feeding only on Marsh Violet and species of dog-violets under lightly Brackened canopies and open woodland. It can be confused with the more common Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary, which frequents damp, sunny areas, again where violet species are abundant. The ‘pearls’ of both are on the underside of their wings. There are old records of Pearl-bordered Fritillary from the Loch Bà area, which also has the damp grassy habitat suitable for the Chequered Skipper. Both would be exceptional and exciting sightings for anyone who believes that Loch Bà might still hide unicorns.



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The Marsh Fritillary The precise pattern of this beautiful butterfly may be variable but the colours are generally brighter than that of other fritillaries, the more so when showing its burnished oranges, creamy yellows and dark browns in bright sunshine. In its Scottish form the markings tend to be even more clearly defined, although they do start to fade after a few days. It flies between May and July. This is a truly rare species, not only in Scotland but across Europe. It has protected status under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981, is on the Scottish Biodiversity List (which contains Scotland’s priority species) and the UK Biodiversity Action Plan, but its distribution in the UK has still fallen almost 80% since the 1970s. Its main larval foodplant, Devil’s-bit Scabious, is found in damp, heathy, tussocky grassland that is preferably lightly grazed by cattle but not by sheep, which selectively feed on the scabious. As a habitat specialist, it is very susceptible to changes in land use and climate, but its population can, in any case, explode or crash unexpectedly, regardless of the weather and habitat conditions. It lays eggs in good numbers, up to 350 in a batch; after hatching, groups of larvae spin a silk web by binding together leaves of the foodplant, which helps preserve warmth. Larvae build new webs as they grow and in later phases these webs can be quite conspicuous. When the adult butterfly emerges from its pupa stage it is unlikely to disperse far, rarely flying more than 50–100 m and being easily discouraged by any kind of barrier such as a wall or river. A few might disperse more widely, but they need a wide territory of suitable habitat if they are to spread, a requirement that makes conservation measures difficult to implement. As Marsh Fritillary also suffers from intense larval parasitism by two parasitic wasps (Cotesia melitaearum and C. bignellii), which lay their eggs in the fritillary’s larva, survival is a tough battle for this beauty.

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Rare and gentle things Other species that are scarce in the UK but relatively common on Mull include Grayling, Green Hairstreak and Common Blue. The Grayling is a mainly coastal species, the largest of the brown butterflies, with a distinctive looping, gliding flight. It is a master of camouflage, providing an excellent example of the many lepidoptera that are attractive enough with their wings extended, but shy about displaying their assets, preferring to close their wings when stationary. In this case, it relies upon the mottled-brown colours of its underwing to hide it against bare earth or tree bark. However, it does give itself away briefly when it is about to fly, as it lifts its forewings slightly to reveal distinctive dark brown eyespots. In some ways, the Green Hairstreak is the opposite. In flight it appears small and a nondescript, but when it lands and closes its wings, it shows a Green Hairstreak delightful bright colour that marks it as the UK’s only green butterfly. This is an illusion, produced by light diffracted by a lattice-like structure within the wing scales – one of several ingenious adaptations on butterfly wings. One of the wonders of nature, for example, is how such fragile beasts as butterflies withstand the violence of being hit by raindrops travelling at high velocity. They survive because their wings have microscopic bumps or spikes that puncture the water film, creating shock waves in the raindrop and rupturing it into tiny fragments which can be deflected away – a useful trait on Mull. The Common Blue is not strictly rare in the UK, so much as currently in decline, but it deserves a mention because this species illustrates perfectly how beauty does not have to be complex and overstated. In flight it Common Blue is all delicate flutter, with the bright, slightly veined but otherwise simple blue colouration of the male set off beautifully by a white fringe to the wings. The female is more variable, with her blue shading into brown, but she has her own subtle charms as well.



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As if from nowhere… Scarcity is not a precondition for being interesting, so the phenomena of multitudes of a species emerging simultaneously and splendidly never disappoints. Butterflies are especially good at this, and there are several species which, as if from nowhere, can suddenly be all over the island. None is a more welcome sight than the ubiquitous Orange-tip, a herald of spring, around the beginning of May. The orange tips on white wings, which make it so distinctive, are worn only by the male as a warning to potential predators of its nasty taste, a result of mustard oils ingested as caterpillars. The female gives no warning, having black tips instead of orange, causing it to be often misidentified. Amazingly, the Orange-tip only arrived on Mull 20 or so years ago, providing an early indicator of the impacts of climate change. If the Orange-tip begins the summer, the emergence of the Scotch Argus is a message that summer will soon be winding to an end. As its name suggests, it is an almost exclusively Scottish butterfly that, elsewhere, is found only in a couple of isolated places in northern England. Accordingly, although it is common around Scotland, visitors to Mull tend to be enthralled by the hyperactive Orange-tip males dashing hither and thither. It is easily distinguished, and although its description as brown with an orange band with dark spots sounds uninspiring, this belies its lovely velvety texture and contrasting colours. It flies in vast numbers in August, even in low temperatures, as its dark colours are hyperefficient at capturing the warmth of the sun. The fact that it has evolved to cope with Scottish weather through its ability to withstand cold climates means that it was probably one of the earliest colonists after the Ice Age retreated, 10,000 years ago.

Scotch Argus

Over and above the species that are born and bred on the island, occasional migrant species ‘holiday’ on Mull. Like the rest of Britain, in 2019 Mull was inundated with Painted Lady butterflies. Although migratory in small numbers every year, the phenomenal numbers recorded in 2019 seem to be related to cyclical eruptions every ten years

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or so (with an estimated 11 million having arrived in 2009). In early spring 2019, the author witnessed huge numbers of these butterflies in Israel on their route westwards. By June through July, they had reached Mull. It has been known for some time that they travel thousands of miles from Africa, across and around the Mediterranean, and it is now known that their offspring make the journey back again at the end of summer, travelling invisibly at height to catch the prevailing winds that take them across the Sahara. These beauties are not as fragile as we imagine!

Moths to the flame In little more than 40 years, ‘generalist’ butterflies – those suited to moving around and adapting to different environments and foodplants – have declined by 46% in the UK. ‘Habitat specialists’ meanwhile – species that cannot be separated from their favourite foodplants and habitats – declined by 77%. Butterflies are the one insect subgroup to which people universally feel attracted, so the much larger and in many ways equally attractive subgroup of moths is seriously overshadowed, but they too are suffering worrying declines. We need to be mindful of the magnificent moths of Mull. They tend to carry what sometimes seem to be fantastical names, but actually fully deserve the hyperbole that surrounds them. The Buff Ermine and White Ermine moths, for example, really do seem to have an ermine cloak about their shoulders. The hawk-moths have a certain raptor-like stature. The Feathered Thorn has a plume of ‘feathers’ combed over its head and nape – and the Argent and Sable is a handsome, though rare, black and white moth that carries itself like a shield emblazoned with a silver heraldic emblem. The Narrow-bordered Bee Hawk-moth is exactly what its name suggests: a bit of everything – a fantasy or a chimera.

Argent and Sable

There are currently around 1,500 moth species in Scotland. Less than half (686) are currently verified as having been recorded on Mull, comprising around 366 macro-moth and 320 micro-moth species. Unless Mull has many fewer species than elsewhere, this relatively low total is probably a reflection of the fact that micro-moths in particular are a specialised area of study. Despite a surprising number being daytime species, few people record them.



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An example of an extreme skill set being deployed, along with the time and physical commitment needed in order to uncover just one micro-moth, was provided on Mull in September 2010. The moth, Arctic Smudge (Plutella haasi), was long known in Britain from just a single specimen found on Beinn Eighe in Wester Ross in 1954. Fifty years later, one person followed up on this solitary specimen, and by almost obsessive detective work, rediscovered the species. It was suspected that its larval foodplant was Northern Rock-cress, itself exceedingly rare (p. 212). Needing confirmation, and knowing that the plant grew on Mull’s Ben More at over 800 m altitude, he searched for and found the rare plant, with the rare moth, and its previously undiscovered larvae! This kind of dedication is unusual, and recording around the island tends to be dependent more upon a handful of people covering a limited area, drawing these beauties to live traps in gardens, powerful lights at night pulling them in ‘like moths to the flame’.

Can’t fly? Take the boat Despite limited resources, around ten new species of moth are added to Mull’s records each year. Some are indigenous to the UK while others are new arrivals nationally, perhaps travelling northwards because of climate change, but either way the island list continues to expand. Examples of species that have extended their range northwards to Mull are Pale Pinion (first recorded in 2013), Buff Footman (2015) and August Thorn (2020). Migratory species that have been newly recorded include the mauve-pink, V-marked Vestal (2016) and the solidly built Bedstraw Hawk-moth (2019). An outstanding example of a moth that has been on the island for possibly thousands of years, but had lain undiscovered until recently, is the Rannoch Brindled Beauty. Within the UK, it is found only in Scotland – notably, as its name suggests, near Rannoch Moor, and even there is extremely scarce. It is not known on any other Scottish islands and has been found at only one site on Mull so far, though the colony is now known to extend over quite a large area. The reason that it has to be a very long established, rather than new, species to Mull is because it is one of a few moths where the female is flightless, thus making dispersal on or off the island extraordinarily difficult – if not impossible. At first glance this makes the story of a similar ‘flightless-female’ moth, the Belted Beauty, somewhat contradictory, insofar as it too is a rare species found on Mull and Iona which should equally have found it impossible to extend its range. It does have a limited range on the mainland, but curiously it is present on islands scattered throughout the Hebrides where it has mysteriously managed to overcome the obstacle of wide expanses of ocean. How this came about is due to a combination of coincidence and human intervention. The strange, tousle-haired females are

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Male Rannoch Brindled Beauty

Female Rannoch Brindled Beauty

Rannoch Brindled Beauty caterpillar

inclined to climb onto wooden posts or similar to await the attention of the flying males. Then the fertilised eggs are laid on any suitable material, which can include driftwood or other woods on machair and habitat close to the sea. Crucially, the eggs can survive immersion in seawater. The range is explained by the presumed intervention of people in days long gone, when the flightless insects must have crawled onto wooden boats hauled out on the shore, mated, travelled and laid eggs on the boats which would have voyaged all around the Hebrides, dropping off moths as they went.

Male Belted Beauty

Female Belted Beauty

Belted Beauty caterpillar



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Cops and robbers The migration of the Belted Beauty happened long ago, but moths go back much further in evolutionary terms. The macro-moths evolved very recently, a mere 125 million years ago, in response to the first flowering plants appearing. Micromoths started to emerge about 200–250 million years ago, so it is to be expected that some would have become extinct by now. This includes Archaeolepis, a 190 million-year-old fossil found in Charmouth, Dorset, that is believed to be the oldest Lepidopteran fossil in the world. The distinction is less a scientific one, more of convenience. Macro-moths are large, micro-moths small, although as with any good rule, there are exceptions. Burnet and forester moths are taxonomically classed as ‘micros’, but being larger and more showy than most they are usually regarded as ‘honorary’ macro-moths – and we know quite a lot about them. The forester group includes the one found on Mull, aptly named Forester. It is a slightly ‘watercolour washed’ greenish moth which flies in sun but sits tight in overcast conditions, well camouflaged and hence not unlike the ‘Lincoln green’ which folklore tells us enabled Robin Hood and his Merry Men to hide in Sherwood Forest. The burnets provide one of Scotland’s great natural history stories. Several species live in small and often remote colonies, notably in the Cairngorms, the west coast, Skye, Mull, Gometra and Ulva. After thousands of years of isolation, due largely to their limited powers of dispersal, they have evolved along different lines, if only subtly. Each species has stringent habitat requirements and specific caterpillar foodplants, and because both adults and caterpillars need to bask they require sunny, sheltered sites.

Forester

The day-flying burnet moths of Mull are bright and immediately obvious, identified by different patterns of black and red on their wings. They are easily confused with the mainly coastal (in Scotland) black and red Cinnabar, which may be better known for its extravagantly yellow and black wasp-striped caterpillar, often seen on ragwort. It is the ragwort that makes this moth toxic because the feeding larva ingests a cyanide-like compound, said to deter birds. Ragwort can be injurious to grazing livestock and has been removed from many mainland farming areas, a possible contributory reason for the Cinnabar remaining locally common but a species generally in decline.

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The Transparent Burnet is found exclusively on the west coast of Scotland, notably Skye and Mull. The larva is found on Wild Thyme, and the adult moth, with almost transparent grey-black wings with crimson streaks, can be seen between mid-June and mid-July. Flying at the same time, the endemic subspecies scotica of the Slender Scotch Burnet occurs only on Mull and some surrounding smaller islands, being found nowhere else in the world. Anyone wishing to find this moth should hunt for the male on the flowers of Milkwort and Wild Thyme, and the female usually on the flowers of Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil. Enthusiasts should be warned however, that ‘hunting’ is only a figurative term in this instance. Some years back, two men were apprehended by the police on Mull because they were acting suspiciously and were thought to be trying to steal eagles’ eggs. It transpired that they were moth dealers, and their car was loaded with hundreds of Slender Scotch Burnet caterpillars and moths, which are not a protected species. They gave half their hoard back and were permitted to keep the rest. Today, whilst ‘moth rustling’ is still not an outlawed activity it is inadvisable. Better to identify species and then report one’s findings to the NBN Atlas.

Slender Scotch Burnet moth The subspecies scotica of this moth is found nowhere in the world apart from Mull, Ulva and Gometra. It has been helped in recent years by grazing controls, Bracken clearance and the partial eradication of invasive garden-escapee cotoneasters, including Entireleaved, Himalayan and Wall Cotoneasters, which threaten to overwhelm its larval foodplant, Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil. As more attention has been paid to this moth, and informed searches carried out, it has been found on new sites in the north of the island and, the largest colony to date, on the Ardmeanach Peninsula. It is a day-flying moth with black wings marked with crimson spots, similar to, but smaller than its more common cousin, the Six-spot Burnet, which is also found on Mull. It breeds on sunny, herb-rich grassland and bare ground which supports the Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil. The larvae feed from August to early May, and the adult moths fly in the warmth of the sunshine, from mid-June to early July. It is a nationally threatened species, due in part to the lack of grazing by domestic herbivores and deer in its less accessible key sites, which leads to vegetation becoming rank and scrubby. In some places cattle have been reintroduced to provide consistent grazing. However, there is little that can be done about the fact that the few remaining colonies are isolated, meaning that there is a risk of losing genetic diversity.

Slender Scotch Burnet moths mating



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Enter the dragons Fossilised remains have revealed relatives of dragonflies on Earth 300 million years ago, and a terrifying prospect they would have been! Insects with a wingspan over 60 cm roamed the skies and, whilst the noise of their whirling flight must have been considerable, the most curious feature then as now could have been their aerobatic displays. They can hover, change direction with astonishing speed, even fly upside down and in reverse. Such aerial prowess means that dragonflies have been intensively studied by aeronautical engineers, eager to find out how humans might replicate their ability to operate each of four wings autonomously. Dragonflies are also characterised by exceptionally large eyes, and as much as 80% of their brain is given over to visual information. These impressive attributes indicate why they are scarily efficient predators. Their larvae are equally successful killers, eating anything from mosquito larvae to tadpoles and even small fish during the time (up to five years) that they spend under water. Of the eight species recorded in the NBN Atlas as being on Mull, the most distinctive, and possibly most common, is the Golden-ringed Dragonfly. A superb, large species, the female grows up to 85 mm in length. It flies for most of summer and epitomises dragonflies as lightning fast, voracious hunters, thinking nothing of predating other dragonflies as well as bumblebees, wasps and other flying insects. It can be seen almost anywhere, but its breeding habitat is small burns in heathland, where the large hairy larva spends its life partially buried in the sediment, with just the eyes and tip of the abdomen visible and its fearsome mouthparts ready to devour anything that it can ambush.

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Also relatively common is the Four-spotted Chaser which flies, like the Goldenringed, throughout the summer, but possibly right into October. The name ‘Chaser’ may derive from its marked territoriality, whereby it sits on favoured perches or patrols ponds, from which it can chase off intruders and look out for likely females with which to mate in flight. Some field guides will explain that its name derives from the two spots on each wing, a little confusing to the amateur entomologist admiring its four wings. ‘Eight-spotted’ might have been a more helpful name. The Keeled Skimmer has something of a stronghold on Mull. It is a rather small but chunky species, perhaps half the length of the Golden-ringed dragonfly and, as its name suggests, it skims low over the variety of acidic pools and streams in which it will breed. The ‘keeled’ part of its name comes from the fine black dorsal line that runs the length of its abdomen. Mating takes place on the ground and can last up to an hour, after which the female will lay its eggs whilst in flight, depositing the eggs by dipping the tip of her abdomen through the meniscus of the water. All the above dragonflies, together with the Common Hawker, Southern Hawker, Black Darter, Common Darter and Northern Emerald make up a fabulous, distinctive, prehistoric-looking group of insects on Mull. But for sheer beauty it is difficult to match their more diminutive cousins, the damselflies. A rare male Northern Emerald Dragonfly. This endangered dragonfly is restricted to north-west Scotland and south-west Ireland, where it breeds in moorland bogs and pools.



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Damsels in distress? Not on Mull There is widespread concern, both globally and in the UK, for damselfly species. Fortunately, Mull provides ideal damp, stable and temperate conditions for them, and of the six recorded species on the island, none are regarded as giving cause for concern. Considerably smaller than dragonflies, they appear much more delicate, almost ephemeral, but present an electric shock of colour when they alight on water plants and reeds or meander around the edges of ponds. The males of three of Mull’s species are an unmistakable bolt of blue. These are the Beautiful Demoiselle, Common Blue, and Azure Damselfly. Only slightly less striking are the Blue-tailed, with a predominantly black abdomen, and Emerald Damselflies. The sixth species, the Large Red is true to its name in the males, though the female may have highly variable colours and is sometimes almost black. Do not expect it to look ‘large’. It is around 3 mm bigger than the Small Red Damselfly at a maximum length of 36 mm. Of all the species, the Blue-tailed Damselfly may be hardest to find as it tends to be rather secretive in flight. However, it is fairly common and not choosy about the water that it frequents, even being tolerant of low levels of pollution. The Common Blues have similar habitat characteristics, but the males are less accommodating to competition, aggressively defending their females against rivals. It is hard to Male Blue-tailed Damselfly

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differentiate from the Azure, but the easiest way is to note the broad blue stripes on the thorax sides of a male Common Blue, These are narrow on an Azure. Nobody said identification in nature was easy. The saying ‘Common Blue is very blue’ may be helpful. The Beautiful Demoiselle is easily distinguishable, quite commonly seen and uncommonly beautiful. Not only larger than the others, about 45 mm long, the male has distinctive dark wings and an almost iridescent metallic-blue body. It is much harder to find elsewhere in most of Scotland and the North of England. Damselflies have a very distinctive and distracting way of mating. The male and female link together in a ‘wheel’, thorax to abdomen tip, following which they can sometimes be seen flying together in the wheel position until the female settles to lay her eggs. While she is laying, delicately poised with just the tip of her abdomen in the water, the male will usually remain attached to the front portion of the female’s thorax, using claspers located at the tip of his abdomen. If ever one needs an excuse to watch damselflies, remember that this skill set is not in the repertoire of a pair of eagles. Large Red Damselflies mating



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Give blood for biodiversity Of course, as we bask in the sunlight of all these wonderful animals, we also live in a state of war with some species that are so annoying as to prompt the question: ‘What is the point of them?’ Specifically, Scotland is a world class place for midges. It is scant consolation that there are 500 species of midges in the UK that do not bite, that there are only 37 species in Scotland that bite warm-blooded animals, and that only one, the legendary Highland Midge, includes human blood in its diet. Even then, it is only the females that bite, seeking proteins from fresh blood to mature their eggs. In their defence(!), midges are vital prey species for animals higher up the food chain, such as bats and birds. Furthermore, if you have ever enjoyed chocolate, thank midges for providing the species that pollinates the cocoa plant to produce cocoa beans. So, every time we give Highland Midges a little blood, we could try staying calm, apply Skin So Soft as repellent if we must, and tell ourselves that each bite is a bite for biodiversity… We are permitted a little belligerence in response to the hostility of this tiny insect, but it should not be allowed to detract from a serious point that places like Mull are now key sanctuaries for a vast range of insects in the face of a crisis of human construction. Seen in this context, Mull’s current health is a blessing, and the thousands of birds carrying flies and caterpillars to their young in early summer all around the island are living proof of how insects, quite literally, hold our world together. If insects disappear, most mammals, reptiles and birds disappear too. That includes us. Strange then, that vast industries have been created to eradicate them and that humans are solely responsible for their precipitous decline. We think of them as ephemera. ‘Ephemera’ means ‘something here today and gone tomorrow’ or ‘something of no lasting significance’. By our sprawling urban development, intensive farming and forestry practices, use of pesticides and destruction of natural remnant habitats, we ensure that insects are afforded almost no significance. This is both supremely careless of their role in the natural world and suggests a collective amnesia when it comes to the threats that beleaguer our own species. Better to think of insects as lynchpins. Lynchpins were originally used to hold a wheel to its axle. When the lynchpin breaks, the wheel comes off.

Waterfall at the head of Glen Belart

POSTSCRIPT

The Forever Future ‘Would it not be a beautiful thing now, if you were just coming rather than going?’ A traditional Hebridean farewell

An island without people In spring 2020, the COVID-19 virus erupted, and the world turned upside down. It was an unprecedented and unimaginable event, and with breathtaking speed a new word – lockdown – came into common usage. Schools and workplaces closed; planes were grounded; food and, bizarrely, toilet roll, were stockpiled; and apart from occasional exercise walks, people stayed home. In any year, early spring sees very few visitors on Mull, and it is noticeably quiet. In 2020 it was eerily so. The empty roads seemed unfamiliar, houses strangely uninviting, and simple acts like shopping were avoided. A sense of exposure and vulnerability set in, and life on the island became unsettling and perplexing, almost apocalyptic. Overnight, people were removed from the landscape. The island was suddenly without its dominant species. Even on Mull, one rarely escapes the thrum of human activity, yet here it was – no human sounds: no background mumble of a car wending its way down a glen; no revving, whining chainsaw working hard; not even a high plane droning off to America. A stroll to the shore would find a landscape and seascape deserted as far as the eye could see, and now one could get a visual sense of the people-less world. No boats on the move, no vapour trail in the wide sky, no van barrelling along the far side of the loch. No-one remembered a time like this.

The new normal The world without humans carried on into early summer, and amidst the fear and confusion of the pandemic a strange new beauty gradually became apparent. Of course, nature’s set routines continued. Flowers sparkled, each besting the others in orchestrated sequence, and grateful bees bumbled. Eagles continued to phlegmatically survey everything, Great Northern Divers faded away to far off places, and the summer incomers – Wheatears, sandpipers, Swallows, and all – arrived on cue.

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Mull’s great strength is its huge tracts of unbridled heaths, moors and mountains where people are scarce and wildlife has room to breathe, and this did not change. Now, however, while the people were absent, nature overflowed into the spaces that they had vacated. Footpaths began to green and grow over; a pair of Otter cubs rough-played in the road; a big old dog Otter sat preening, carefree on a rock by the roadside; a Snipe strolled impertinently into the sunshine, slipped unconcernedly into the Soft Rush and emerged minutes later ostentatiously drumming its territorial rights and privileges in a blur of noisy feathers. Commotion ensued as a pair of Wheatears harried a ferreting Stoat assiduously working holes and crevices in the rocks in broad daylight, while Slow Worms slid innocently in and out of the undisturbed verges. ‘Shifting Baseline Syndrome’ is a vaguely scientific way of describing how much people understand changes to nature over time. When memories fade and stories are not passed down through generations, knowledge is lost about the state of the natural world. People do not recall transformations that have been taking place. Perceptions of change become out of kilter with the actual extent of modifications to the environment. Loch Bà



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The onset of the coronavirus pandemic was the year that we had time, both to observe that nature is more comfortable without our disturbance, and to recognise that, even on Mull, wildlife wants to be more of a presence than we usually allow; more like the long-gone, less frenetic, forgotten world of years ago. It stirred some of those lost memories and reminded a few people at least of how quickly nature could recolonise land that people have appropriated – the more so in an already vibrant and pulsing ecosystem such as Mull. In short, we had forgotten what things used to be like, and had begun to believe that what we have today is what we always had. In Britain, the Cuckoo has seen a population drop of more than 80% in the past 30 years. Its strange call has been lost to so many places in the space of one lifetime, yet people forget that it was once a part of everyone’s summer. On Mull, we tell ourselves that the Lapwings have returned this spring to their nesting grounds, not recalling that in years gone by there were four or five times as many. If the perceived abundance of Mull’s wildlife has anything to teach us, it is that we need to make space to take stock, for without conscious reflection our expectations are diminished – we lose touch – and for our own future’s sake we cannot afford to be decoupled from nature and how to serve its best interests.

The old normal Given time to reflect, we sometimes happen upon some uncomfortable truths, one of which is indisputable – over the history of life on Earth, humans have had a greater negative impact on global biodiversity than any other species. We know myriad ways to extinguish targeted species or change any landscape, yet know little about reversing pernicious environmental impacts, which through our careless agency push thousands of species into spiralling decline. Today, according to a report for the global insurance industry, at least one-fifth of the world’s countries (including such diverse nations as Australia, Israel, South Africa, India, Spain and Belgium), are at risk of their ecosystems collapsing because of the destruction of wildlife and their habitats. The stakes are getting higher, the risks greater and, in respect of ecology and climate change, the tipping points loom closer: there is a debt to be settled with nature, yet we continue, recklessly, to gamble. Having briefly had the chance to reflect upon all this during the pandemic lockdown, in midsummer a switch was thrown. Mull re-opened to the world. Otters retreated again beyond the strandline, Slow Worms perished on the tarmac and campervans held station where the Snipe had been on the foreshore. This is not to criticise the visitors who flocked to the island, as they were desperate for the taste of a wild place after being constrained for so long. Simply put, for those who had closely observed whilst lockdown afforded the opportunity for nature to flare even more brightly, it

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was sad to witness wild places becoming once again a little more vulnerable and a little less visible in the slipstream of economic and social necessity. As if to emphasise that normal service was being resumed, the region’s council chose to prioritise its annual midsummer cull of orchids and wild flowers, grassland mammals and reptiles, butterflies and moths (and their caterpillars), plus other insects, by cutting a swathe through their habitats along the roadsides. Species after species were casually removed from the web of life in the space of a few days. Every ten miles of cropped verges – the distance from Salen to Tobermory – might be the equivalent to destroying up to 15 acres of rich wildlife habitat. It does not have to be like this. In the north of the island, at Treshnish Farm, is the award-winning Coronation Meadow. In this example of conservation in action, a huge diversity of flowers, many nationally threatened, have been encouraged to proliferate from a once severely overgrazed landscape. Birds and butterflies have multiplied. The secret? Managed grazing, but also the simple expedient of not cutting for hay until the summer’s end when seed has set, and wildlife has completed its breeding cycle.

An island in harmony Over time, events have shown that the island’s natural resources are very resilient. The above is no more than an attempt to record some ‘lockdown’ images and reflections before they fade in memory and before such confirmations of where Mull’s strength lies become lost. Mull’s main source of wealth, the mainstay of the island’s economy, is its natural world. At the very time that ecosystems of countries around the world are collapsing, Mull is a by-word, a brand perhaps, for a quality natural environment that sustains most of its industry – namely farming, fishing, aquaculture and tourism. Without doubt, some of Mull’s custodians through history have been guilty of manipulating and at times degrading ecosystems, but we should also give credit to generations of Muileachs who, as farmers, crofters or alchemists (depending upon your romantic inclinations), helped form the bone structure of the habitats and natural history that we find today. It is not the landscape that would have prevailed had people never lived on Mull but, like it or not, they have been an integral species in the ecology of the island almost since the Ice Age. So, while allowing for criticism of some less praiseworthy human interventions, we must acknowledge that much of Mull’s outstanding wildlife is only here because of the accidents, designs and benign way of life exhibited by people. Today, however, there is a difference. The world is trying to navigate through transformations and crises occurring at an unprecedented speed and scale, for which there is no brake and no user manual.



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It will no longer be enough to simply have a benign disposition. Great foresight and enlightenment will be needed to safeguard the island’s natural resources. It makes absolute sense to insist that all interventions from hereon should at least take account of negative effects on the environment, and preferably afford new opportunities for biodiversity enhancement. Scientists, and those who take note, understand full well that we are approaching potentially cataclysmic tipping points, and the protection of habitats, species and ecosystem services is more important than ever. No less so on a small island, which stands proud as an exemplar ecology and symbol of the best that nature has to offer. If time under COVID-19 taught us anything, it is that we need to be caring and to recognise the rights of all. These unwritten rules should be applied not only between people, but to all of the species that support us and with which we need to live in harmony. Glengorm’s ‘low impact’ Bathing Pool

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No island is an island Unfortunately, the message that we have a duty of care has not reached everybody, and with the best will in the world, the island is powerless to repel threats from elsewhere. This is the wistful message carried by some migratory species that flourish when comfortably ensconced on Mull, yet suffer on their wearying migration passage, or when settled in their ‘other’ home overseas. Spotted Flycatchers and Whinchats sojourn in Africa throughout the winter and are enduring long-term population declines from the fallout inflicted abroad by habitat loss, hunting or climate change. The unsightly, unhealthy and forever-with-us plastics that wash up on Mull’s beaches may not even originate in Europe, let alone the Hebrides, and no amount of beach cleaning will filter any hidden influx of microplastics heading the island’s way. Similarly, the toxic PCBs, accumulating to such devastating effect in large marine animals, almost certainly originated elsewhere, whilst the loss of fish species has long been attributed to a mix of rapacious itinerant ‘foreign’ trawlers and climate change. There will be no hiding from the last of these, and for all Mull’s recent attempts to embrace renewable energy, climate impacts on biodiversity are expected to be inevitable and remorseless over the next decades. If, as predicted, our weather becomes warmer, wetter and windier, some plants of the Celtic Rainforest may celebrate and thrive. But for other habitats and animals, an already harsh and unpredictable world may well become unendurable. Moths

Black Beach



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and butterflies generally do not relish such conditions, and ground-nesting birds may struggle. It might be thought that larger birds are more resilient, but in the case of Short-eared Owls, for example, prolonged periods of penetrating wind and rain make it impossible to hunt, forcing adults to abandon their wet, cold and starving chicks. Other birds of prey, even the eagles, could be similarly affected.

All change Fluctuations in response to climate change are not likely to happen in clean phases. With marine life, for example, some species will gradually shift to more northern latitudes, with different species coming into Mull’s seas from further south. In recent years, there has been evidence of considerable numbers of the deep-water Cuvier’s Beaked Whales in the seas beyond Mull. It is a species that is known to be moving north and would fit a predicted trend in marine animals responding to changes in water temperature and prey distribution, as would the Sun-fish, normally found in tropical waters warmer than about 10°C, yet increasingly sighted by boat operators on the west coast. Blue-fin Tuna were once regularly seen around Scotland but vanished decades ago, probably because their prey disappeared. Now they seem to be returning to the west coast. Is this because climate change is bringing back their favoured prey? Other mega-species that make long-distance seasonal migrations (including baleen whales such as Minke Whale and Humpback Whale) will probably arrive earlier, perhaps in some cases affording breeding opportunities. Some regions have already witnessed the loss of Kittiwakes, Puffins and other auks, as sand eels and other fish desert their historic haunts. Arctic Terns may follow. All of these could one day be lost from the Treshnish Isles, and there are predictions that birds such as the Great Skua and Arctic Skua will almost certainly become extinct in the UK altogether by 2100. But it is not all bad news, as the trend to move north means that some new bird species should expand from the south to reach Mull more regularly. How long before someone pens a verse to The Mull Nightingale? In principle, species that cannot tolerate climate-induced changes have two choices – either to evolve and adapt to the new conditions or alter where they live. If they cannot achieve either of these two alternatives, they become extinct. Interestingly, in Chapter 8, it was seen that Blackcaps are one bird that has started both to evolve and to change its distribution, albeit in response to new food supplies rather than climatic influences. This nevertheless provides tantalising encouragement that some species may be capable of adopting new migration patterns and evolving in response to climate change.

The small stuff and the sea There is clear evidence that warming seas, reduced oxygen, ocean acidification and sea-level rise are already affecting British coasts and seas. These changes are each having impacts on food webs, with effects seen across the board, from seabed-dwelling species to fish, birds and mammals. In particular there have been extensive changes in plankton ecosystems measured around the British Isles for the last 60 years, and although the loss of plankton has been most severe in the North Sea, effects are felt on the west coast as well.

Basking Shark, north of Mull

Some of our traditionally prevalent cold-water plankton have been declining due to warmer seas, whilst other species with warmer-water affinities are moving northwards to replace them, but these are not as numerically abundant and do not meet many of their predators’ needs. Phytoplankton are plants that, like land plants, contain chlorophyll and photosynthesise, capturing energy from sunlight to turn carbon dioxide into carbohydrates. They are the foundation of the aquatic food web, eaten by many animals including another group of plankton, zooplankton. This fascinating group includes Krill and microscopic larval forms of animals such as crabs and lobster, even Conger Eels. Species that eat plankton range from small fish and invertebrates to huge animals, including the iconic, awesomely large visitor to Mull’s seas, the Basking Shark. For such microscopic food to grow such large animals says everything about its extraordinary abundance. Its decline will have a huge impact upon fish populations, which in turn affects birds, cetaceans and other mammals. It would also mean the loss of ecosystem services, such as oxygen production and the removal of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. When phytoplankton die, they sink to the ocean floor, where the carbon they lock up renders them crucial in managing climate change. As their growth is often limited by a scarcity of iron, there have even been experiments to add iron dust to the sea with the aim of promoting phytoplankton blooms. Plankton is that important – without the small stuff, the marine environment could enter a game-changing decline.

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Indescribable intoxication Reviewing these challenges for nature is essential. It reminds us never to take things for granted and allows the option to prepare as best we can for what may come. However, for all the warnings and premonitions, they should not eclipse our inclination to continue to engage with and take pleasure from nature in all its glory. More than ever we should bear witness to the success of wildlife on Mull – and feel that, with a little help, it will be able to roll with the punches and continue to thrive, whatever the challenge. This is its strength. It is hard to imagine Mull’s natural world not purring along like a powerful, pulsating, finely tuned engine, fully synchronised and never tiring. It feels free from the environmental desecration that has beset more populous and developed places, such that visitors can depart believing that, although the road home will inevitably lead to a less forgiving, damaged and more abrasive world, they can return at any time to feast again at the banquet of natural wonders. All islands seem to provide some degree of spiritual uplift, even without the added value of remarkable biodiversity. The writer and naturalist Gerald Durrell once wrote that ‘islomania is a rare affliction of spirit. There are people who find islands somehow irresistible. The mere knowledge that they are in a little world, surrounded by sea fills them with an indescribable intoxication.’ He may never have come to Mull, but he was a man with a discerning taste in islands who would certainly have appreciated the essential role of some richly endowed islands as wildlife ‘arks’. He would have understood that islands have a unique chemistry that is not easy to analyse. However, amidst the euphoria, it seems sensible to be wary of complacency; to heed the insidious threats to biodiversity that are advancing from beyond Mull; to search urgently for a consensus about what makes the island special; and to commit to safeguarding its future.

Wildlife and people: a perfect symbiosis? These are not straightforward issues, but a start might be to consider two factors that have earned Mull a place at the top table of biodiversity. The first is that nature is extraordinarily adaptable and resilient when it is faced with fewer threats and a modicum of freedom. Being physically separate from the mainland has ensured a degree of insulation from threats in the past, but there has also historically been a psychological separation which has meant that different rules and attitudes have applied. This sense of separation is becoming increasingly blurred in today’s globally connected world. The second factor is that, although Mull’s human inhabitants have undoubtedly tested a few species past breaking point, people have generally



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and admirably restrained the urge to destabilise the ecology of the island and its surrounds. This has been largely due to low-impact living – even when 10,000 people lived in Mull’s townships – and to minimally industrialised farming practices. There are numerous social, economic and geographic reasons for the latter, but there does seem to have been a deal struck that enabled the human population to live off the natural resources and for biodiversity to thrive by association. This has been a true symbiotic relationship. In return for not impacting unduly upon the wildlife, and even enhancing habitats in some ways, the people of Mull have gained an impressive amount in return from the flora and fauna. To continue to do so they may need to nurture it carefully in future. We have touched briefly on the farming, fishing and aquaculture industries. All of these benefit from natural resources, all have a future and all have constraints that are likely to limit unsustainable production in years to come. Salmon farming appears to be at something of a crossroads, as demand for the produce increases but questions remain about the industry’s ability to reconcile high-volume production facilities with their environmental impact upon the natural world. Inshore creel fishing lives off natural stocks and seems to be sustainable if water quality remains good, but the levels of harvest cannot be expanded beyond the capacity of the animals to reproduce and grow to sufficient size. Meanwhile, upland farming is highly adaptable to its physical surroundings, but the economics of the industry Be prepared when watching wildlife!

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have been questioned for many years and remain at the whim of markets, public endorsement and political expediency. Animal numbers are unlikely to be expanded any time soon and have, in fact, been falling. This leaves the island’s current dependence upon the tourism and hospitality industry. Of all sectors of the island economy, tourism has the most transparent relationship with the landscape, flora and fauna. Ironically, this is where the biggest pressure upon the wildlife/human relationship is exerted.

A challenge is laid down There is an ever-present danger of conflict between the increasing number of visitors to the island, infrastructure to manage those increases and the wildlife that tourists come to see. The impact upon wildlife is most noticeable in such instances as where an Otter family is widely known to inhabit a particularly accessible territory. Or where easy access to a shoreline allows unwitting dog owners to exercise their pet through nesting bird colonies. Or where busy roads allow no respite to wildlife, forcing it to retreat away from thoroughfares. This is not to disparage tourism – far from it. Visitors are universally welcomed, generally appreciative of nature and, for the most part, respectful of it. As people’s desire to feed their hunger for more contact with nature increases, it is more a case of asking: ‘How will human need and wildlife need be equally met?’ If we can answer that question and still quench the insatiable thirst to drink from the cup of wild Mull, biodiversity everywhere will benefit from thousands of ambassadors who will have passed through the ‘Mull Wildlife Academy’. Ringed Plover, closely watched by a nesting Oystercatcher



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At the same time, we should not forget that Mull’s community is like any other. There is pressure to grow the population, which will require a healthy, diverse, four-season economy with business premises and new housing, particularly in respect of young people. Without careful, visionary planning this cannot fail to incrementally diminish the natural environment and erode the aesthetic value of the landscape. The community will have to take ownership of some difficult questions as to how to determine where and how much development is appropriate; who will determine when enough is enough; and what criteria they will use for that judgement. It is easy to pose questions, of course, and less easy to answer, but just keeping somewhere looking picturesque does not mean that it is healthy for either its human inhabitants or its wildlife. Perhaps lessons could be learned from the way sustainable ecosystems function. They have in-built checks and balances, remain stable and do not compromise the future of any species essential to their complex functioning. Joined-up thinking and an island-wide vision of the future seems to be a minimum approach, but within that process nature must have a voice. Finally, if we do not know how much nature we have, and if we do not understand what nature requires to thrive or what damages it, everything is guesswork. There is a vast array of records about species and habitats on Mull, but it is so widely dispersed as to be almost irrelevant. Bringing observations, anecdotes and hard data together would provide an evidence base second to none and validate any claim for Mull’s environment to be deserving of special consideration in the future. In short, it does not deserve, nor can it afford, to end up as one of those many places where people lament lost wilderness.

Where the wild is This book has emphasised that wildness, or ‘wild’ nature, is a quality that is not common and not to be taken for granted. It is a rare diamond in an age of declining supply and increasing demand. We should never be deceived into thinking that wildness exists beyond the influence of people, however, because nowhere on Earth does. Every one of the wild places in Scotland and the wider world encompasses a human history as part of its natural history. Furthermore, nothing is static. Everywhere exists in a continual state of altering and adapting, always on the brink of being formed but never completed. The future is forever. The nearest that we might get, therefore, to a definition of wild at any given moment is when individual species flourish in a dynamic landscape of sufficient scale to be free of constraints. However, as well as a meaning for ‘wild’, there is also a feeling of wildness held entirely in the imagination and eye of the beholder. It is where a place and its diverse species evoke in a person a sense of freedom that is

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so rich and rare as to have an energy, untamed and untrammelled, that raises the spirit just as the wind might lift a soaring eagle. This is Mull, its islands, its seas and its skies. We are witness to the wild when we raise our binoculars to gaze at soaring White-tailed Eagles and Golden Eagles together, riding a thermal over Glen Cannel, spiralling higher and higher above Beinn Chàisgidle, until they eventually drift far away and fade to cloud. What greater evocation of wild is there than the haunting, strangely musical wail of a Red-throated Diver sounding across the water from the expanse of Loch Buie, or the guttural belling of a stag that stops us in our tracks way off on Lochdon marshes? Are we not in the presence of elemental nature when we share a joyful communion with a pod of skimming dolphins surging through the Sound of Iona en route to Staffa, or when silently revelling in the boisterous, affectionate play-fight of a couple of Otter kits in the shallows of the Loch Beg salt marsh? The soft cushions of vivid green moss-covered rocks in the dappled shade of any part of the Celtic Rainforest,



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or the vibrant, sapphire Bluebells in spring sunlight by an Ulva track, speak volumes about the independence of an array of flora. Who can say this is not nature doing what nature was created to be? Self-willed, intuitive, harmonious – wild. The irresistible inclination of humankind – to physically reshape the world to our own design, to domesticate plants and animals, to inflict upon nature the discharges of our improvident lifestyles, and to tame the wild – has delivered the most comprehensive and destabilising undertaking globally of any species in history. Among all this, Mull, even with its expanding town and villages, busy ferries, occasionally lively roads and modern infrastructure, has somehow continued to deliver the necessary space and resources to sustain a latter-day wilderness. Long may it remain so.

Brackish marshes of Loch Beg provide an important feeding habitat for wildlife

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Wild Mull Winners and losers: birds and climate

Swallows, near Torlochan House

Climate change has been having effects on species in the UK for some time. Birds are probably the best-studied animals and tell insightful stories of both successful adaptations and steady declines. Although the science of forecasting the impacts of climate change is notoriously imprecise, there is mounting evidence to suggest that in western Scotland and around Mull a pattern will emerge in which some species become extinct, while other species are likely to have opportunities for colonisation and range expansion, provided the right habitat is there. Among some that have been expanding northwards for some time are Jays, which have become much more apparent on Mull in recent years, and their increase is likely to continue. Until lately, the Little Egret was thought of as exotic in the UK but has already had an occasional presence on Mull in recent years and it is quite possible that others will follow. Migratory birds may prove to be the most vulnerable, but we are already seeing some birds arriving and successfully breeding earlier in the spring, probably in response to insects hatching earlier than previously. For example, Swallows (above) are arriving in the UK 15 days earlier, and breeding 11 days earlier, than they did in the 1960s. Permanent resident species are also changing their lifestyles. Great Tits are laying eggs 11 days earlier than 40 years ago. Thus, a pattern is emerging which suggests that Mull could have a net gain of species over coming years, but that some old faces will disappear. Of the species that may be lost to Mull altogether by the end of the century are the Black-throated Diver, Red-throated Diver, Great Northern Diver, Slavonian Grebe, Ptarmigan, Short-eared Owl, Long-eared Owl and Common Gull. Those that may well become relatively common include Gadwall, Hobby, Sandwich Tern, Yellow Wagtail, Green Woodpecker, Little Owl, Pied Flycatcher, Cetti’s Warbler and Nuthatch. Great Crested Grebes are also possible. They are more likely to move north-east towards Scandinavia and Russia than north, but there is still a strong likelihood that Mull’s freshwater lochs may eventually see these ‘southern’ exotics breeding.



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Weaving the final threads By now, the reader may well ask: ‘How come the soothing balm of stories of wild nature has been diluted by this final, cold emphasis upon difficult challenges that face wild Mull in the future?’ The honest reply would be that not weaving all the threads together would be to tell only half of the story. It would also mean that it would be more difficult to argue for Mull as a heroic standard-bearer of biodiversity in the face of outside threats. The aim has been to celebrate a wild place, with arguably none better in Britain, but we should never forget how fragile such places are and how, in the modern world, we must work harder to keep them. The assertion that nature and a healthy, sustainable community have always been mutually dependent, and will remain so, can only be tested by time and actions, but here is an open invitation to anybody to witness it in practice – day in, day out, and season by season. Now is our time to create our own future, and there are choices to be made, for better or worse. There are already many examples on the island of excellent practice that can show the way in the future, with certainly more to come, so hopefully people twenty, fifty or a hundred years from now will walk the landscape full of gratitude for the decisions that today’s generation made. But why wait to come? There is no time like the present, and when you do come, do so with an open mind and a resolution to spend a little time in reflection. Enjoy the woodlands, heaths, dolphins, harriers and eagles, but pause for a moment at the ruins of an abandoned township, the defiantly preserved lazy beds that are sculpted into the landscape, the occasional mysterious standing stone or the odd proud (if debilitated) castle, and allow your imagination to consider the former islanders, their tough lives and their bond with the land. People, the land and the wildlife have travelled together for 10,000 years and now they are beginning the next leg of the journey. You are welcome to join them. Mull is generous in allowing everyone who visits the chance to weave their own story and spin their own dreams. It is OK to leave when it is time to do so, but try to keep a little piece of Wild Mull in your heart, and perhaps you will return to savour more.

To your health, and Mull’s health – Slàinte mhath!

Isle of Mull, Scotland Because by now we know everything is not so green elsewhere. The cities tied their nooses around our necks, we let them without even seeing. Not even feeling our breath soften as clumps of shed wool scattered across days. Not even. This even-ing, balance beam of light on green, the widely lifted land, resonance of moor winding down to water, the full of it. Days of cows and sheep bending their heads.

We walked where the ancient pier juts into the sea. Stood on the rim of the pool, by the circle of black boulders. No one saw we were there and everyone who had ever been there stood silently in air. Where else do we ever have to go, and why? Naomi Shihab Nye

Acknowledgements and Photographers’ Credits Our sincere thanks go to everyone who has influenced the final product. Most of the images are taken on Mull with a few sourced mostly nearby but indicative of Mull. We would especially like to thank the following important individuals: Linda Littlewood for inspiration, many read-throughs and edits, coffee, style prompts, coffee, additions and deletions, and coffee; and Stella Clifford-Jones for editing the early stages of written material, providing a constant source of design enlightenment and for preparing the style guide – and cracking the whip! Stella and Linda are heroes! Many people have been free with information, opinions and support. A particular mention must go to Andy Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com and editor of many of the WildGuides books) for his invaluable help, inspiration and guidance when designing our book, as well as his own contribution of several images. Special thanks must also go to Naomi Shihab Nye who enthusiastically gave us her beautiful poem at the end of the book, and the following who contributed invaluable guidance, information and advice when it has been sought, both before and during production: (in alphabetical order) Ron Blacoe, Norma Dowling, Lynne Farrell, Stuart Gibson, Annie Ives (Bumblebee Conservation Trust), Paddy Saunders, Dave Sexton (RSPB), Alan Skeates, Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com), Shane Wasik (Basking Shark Scotland) and Ray Woods. Finally, we are forever grateful to the wildlife of Mull, without which there would have been no book. The contribution of every photographer is gratefully acknowledged, and each image is listed below. Some images have been sourced via the terms of Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license (CC BY 2.0), Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported (CC BY 3.0), Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license (CC BY-SA 4.0) or Creative Commons Attribution Public Domain (CC0). (These are indicated by ‘/CC’ or ‘/PD’ after the photographer or origin’s name.) p. ii: Lower waterfalls, Aros Park [Martin Jones]. pp. iv–v: Langamull [James Clifford-Jones]. p. vi: Common Tern [Stella Clifford-Jones]. Foreword  p. vii: slope of Ben More [Martin Jones]; pp. viii–ix: across Loch Frisa [Stella Clifford-Jones]. Introduction  pp. x–xi: Ben More range [Martin Jones]. Chapter 1 The Fairest of the Isles  p. xii: Ulva [Martin Jones]; p. 1: Dugald’s memorial [Stephen Littlewood]; pp. 2–3: Loch Buie Beach [Martin Jones]; p. 4: Langamull Beach [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 5: haar at Calgary Bay [Martin Jones]; p. 6: descending Ben More [John Reece]; p. 7: Bac Mòr [Martin Jones]; p. 8: White-tailed Eagle [Martin Jones]; p. 9: mother Otter and two cubs, on the lookout [Lesley Robb]; p. 10: Red Deer [Martin Jones]; pp. 12–3: Lunga [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)].



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Chapter 2 The Land That Holds the Life  p. 14: hexagonal columns of Staff [Martin Jones]; p. 15: pebbles [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 18: ammonite [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 20: fossil tree [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 21: Great Glen fault map [Mikenorton/CC BY-SA 4.0 International license, adjusted to fit on page]; p. 22: pink granite [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 23: Ardmeanach Peninsula [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 24: Loch Bà Ring Dyke [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 25: Fingal’s Cave [Martin Jones]; p. 26: Calgary Dyke [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 28: Scarisdale P-forms (both images) [Linda Littlewood]; pp. 30–1: machair [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 32: Black Beach [Martin Jones]; p. 33: Iona [Stephen Littlewood]. Chapter 3 People and the Shaping of Mull  p. 34: Kilmore Standing Stones [Martin Jones]; p. 37: Mull’s mosaic of habitats [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 38: bloodstone [Ra’ike/CC BY 3.0, resized to fit on page and removal of some background]; pp. 40–1: Loch Cuin [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 43: mixed woodland at Port nan Ròn [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 44: policy woods [Martin Jones]; p. 46: cattle roaming [Martin Jones]; p. 47: pine trees [Martin Jones]; p. 48: thatched croft [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 49: Lazy beds [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 51: Tireragan [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 53: Mull’s Kyloe cattle [Martin Jones]; p. 54: Port na Ba [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 55: Meadow Pipit [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 56: blackface sheep [Martin Jones]; p. 57: ‘A walk through time’ [William Daniell, National Library of Scotland, MS.6140, Vol. III]. Chapter 4 Invasions, Extinctions and Mull’s Own ‘Gene Genie’  p. 58: Red Deer stag [Martin Jones]; p. 59: gladiators face animals, Zliten mosaic AD 200 [unknown author/PD] p. 60: Japanese Knotweed [Scottish Invasive Species Initiative, unknown author/CC BY 2.0; general cropping]; p. 62: Crossbill [Dave Soons]; p. 64: Small Tortoiseshell [Martin Jones]; p. 66: Red Deer [Martin Jones]; p. 67: Fallow Deer [Martin Jones]; p. 68: Rabbit [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 70: Mountain Hare [Martin Jones]; p. 73: Pine Marten [Nathen Briggs]; p. 74: American Mink [Martin Jones]; p. 76: Polecat [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 77: Gunnera at Glengorm [Martin Jones]; p. 78: Rhododendron ponticum [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 79: American Skunk Cabbage (plus inset) [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 80: Mull Bird Club logo [Mull Bird Club]. Chapter 5 Fangs, Fins and Fur  p. 82: Common Lizard [James Clifford-Jones]; p. 85: Field Vole [John Tomsett]; p. 86: Red Deer, [Martin Jones]; p. 87: Red Deer [Martin Jones]; p. 89: Fallow Deer [Martin Jones]; p. 91: Otter [Martin Jones]; p. 93: Molehills at Croggan [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 94: goat [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 96: Common Pipistrelle [Gareth J. Foreman (www.GadgetGazPhoto.com)]; pp. 98–9: Adder [Bob Hastie]; pp. 100–1: lochan at Aros Park [Martin Jones]; p. 102: Loch Bà [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 103: Grey Heron with Brook Lamprey [Eero Kiuru]. Chapter 6 Raptors of Eagle Island  p. 104: Buzzard [Martin Jones]; p. 105: Eagle, Loch Bà [Stella Clifford-Jones/Martin Jones]; p. 106: Peregrine [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 107: White-tailed Eagle [Martin Jones]; pp. 108–9: pair of White-tailed Eagle ‘dancing’ [Stella Clifford-Jones/Martin Jones]; p. 112: White-tailed Eagle [Martin Jones]; p. 113: Staffordshire Hoard [Birmingham Museums Trust]; p. 114: Golden Eagle with catch [Bill Richmond]; p. 116: Three Lochs [Martin Jones]; p. 118: Hen Harrier [Gordon Yates]; p. 119: Hen Harriers [Gordon Yates]; p. 120: Buzzard [Martin Jones]; p. 121: Sparrowhawk [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 123: Short-eared Owl [David Kjaer]; p. 125: Barn

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Owl [David Kjaer]; p. 127: Tawny Owl [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 129: Barn Owl nest box [Stella Clifford-Jones]. Chapter 7 In Their Element – the Seabirds  p. 130: Herring Gull [Martin Jones]; pp. 132–3: Loch na Keal to the open sea [Martin Jones]; p. 134: Storm Petrels [Mark Darlaston]; p. 135: ‘Mother Carey and her chickens’, J.G. Keulemans, 1877/PD]; p. 137: Puffin [Martin Jones]; p. 138: Razorbills [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 140: Gannet [Martin Jones]; p. 141: Eider [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 143: Great Northern Diver [Pete Walkden]; p. 145: Iceland Gull [Martin Jones]. Chapter 8 Extraordinary Landbirds  p. 146: Grey Herons [Martin Jones]; p. 148: Little Egret [Martin Jones]; p. 150: Pheasant [Chery Callow]; p. 152: Snipe [Martin Jones]; p. 153: Wren [Martin Jones]; p. 154: Blackcap [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages. com)]; p. 156: Dippers [Martin Jones]; p. 157: Grasshopper Warbler [Bill Richmond]; p. 158: Lapwing [Martin Jones]; p. 159: Stonechat and Meadow Pipit [Martin Jones]; p. 160: Wheatear [Martin Jones]; p. 161: Red Grouse [Martin Jones]; p. 162: Grey Heron [Martin Jones]; p. 163: Oystercatchers and Curlew [Martin Jones]; p. 165: Corncrake [Chery Callow]; p. 166: Cuckoo [Rob Waller]; p. 167: Raven and White-tailed Eagle [Tris Enticknap]. Chapter 9 The Kingdom of the Celtic Rainforest  p. 168: Tree Lungwort and Orange Pox Lichen [Martin Jones]; p. 170: Bluebell woods [Martin Jones]; p. 172: Hazel stools [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 173: oak tree [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 174: crustose lichen [Martin Jones]; p. 176: Octopus Suckers and Dog Lichen [Martin Jones]; p. 177: Tree Lungwort and Script Lichen [Martin Jones]; p. 178: Plum-fruited Felt Lichen [Martin Jones]; p. 179: Reindeer Lichen [Linda Littlewood]; p. 181: Fungus [Martin Jones]; p. 182: Blackening Brittlegill [Martin Jones]; p. 183: Sulphur Tuft [Martin Jones]; p. 184: Mica Cap [Martin Jones]; p. 184: Yellow Brain [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 185: Amethyst Deceiver and Shaggy Scalycap [Martin Jones]; p. 186: Horn of Plenty [Martin Jones]; p. 187: Fly Agaric [Martin Jones]; p. 188: Hazel Gloves [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 189: moss capsules [Martin Jones]. Chapter 10 Plants of Place and Purpose  p. 190: Thrift [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 192: Primrose [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 194: Yellow Iris [Martin Jones]; p. 195: Bluebells [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 196: Bracken [Martin Jones]; p. 197: Bracken [Martin Jones]; p. 198: Dark Green Fritillary [Martin Jones]; p. 199: Heath Spotted-orchid (probably!) [Martin Jones]; p. 200: Common Twayblade [Martin Jones]; p. 200: Small-white Orchid [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 201: Greater Butterfly-orchid [Martin Jones]; p. 201: Northern Marsh-orchid [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 202: Buckler Fern [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 203: Hart’s-tongue Fern [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 204: Roseroot [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 205: machair [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 206: Harebells [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 208: The Beatons [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 209: Pignut and Red Campion, and Valerian [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 209: Devil’s-bit Scabious, Meadow Buttercup, Tormentil and Ragged-Robin [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 210: Bog Asphodel [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 211: Great Sundew [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 212: Ben More habitat [James Clifford-Jones] with Northern Rock-cress (inset) [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 213: Icelandpurslane [Simon Harrap]; p. 214: Thistle, sunset (and Stella!) [Martin Jones]; p. 215: Cotton Thistle [Eseldistel/CC BY 3.0 (crop)].



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Chapter 11 Life Beyond the Strandline  p. 216: translucent waters [Martin Jones]; p. 218: Black Beach [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 219: Green Shore Crab [Martin Jones]; p. 220: Acorn Barnacles [Martin Jones]; p. 221: limpets [Martin Jones]; pp. 222–3: oyster farming [Martin Jones]; p. 224: creels at Aros Park [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 225: Norway Lobster [Peter J. Bardsley]; p. 226: trawlers at night [Martin Jones]; p. 228: Maerl [Martin Jones]; p. 229: Basking Shark with Eigg and Rum in the background [Antony Stanley/CC BY 2.0 (fading of background)]; pp. 230–1: Short-beaked Common Dolphins [E. James W. West]; p. 233: beached Minke Whale [Stephen Littlewood]; p. 235: the Orca/Killer Whale known as John Coe [Andy Stables]; pp. 236–7: Grey Seals [Martin Jones]; p. 239: Salmon cages at sunset [Stella Clifford-Jones]. Chapter 12 Beautiful Beasties  p. 240: wasp [Martin Jones]; p. 242: Common Carder Bee and lupin [Martin Jones]; p. 243: Flat-ridged Nomad Bee [John Walters]; p. 244: Honey Bees [Martin Jones]; p. 246: Pearl-bordered Fritillary [Jonathan Keefe]; p. 247: Marsh Fritillary [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 248: Green Hairstreak and Common Blue [Jonathon Keefe]; p. 249: Orange-tip [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 249: Scotch Argus [Jonathon Keefe]; p. 250 Argent and Sable [Jonathon Keefe]; p. 252: Rannoch Brindled Beauty (male, female and caterpillar) and Belted Beauty (male, female and caterpillar) [Jonathon Keefe]; p. 253 Forester [Jonathon Keefe]; p. 254 Slender Scotch Burnet moths and habitat [Andy and Gill Swash (WorldWildlifeImages.com)]; p. 255: Golden-ringed Dragonfly [Martin Jones]; p. 256: Northern Emerald [Martin Jones]; p. 257: Blue-tailed Damselfly [Martin Jones]; p. 258: Large Red Damselflies [Martin Jones]. Postscript: The Forever Future  p. 260: waterfall [Martin Jones]; p. 262: Loch Bà [Martin Jones]; p. 265: bathing pool [Stella Clifford-Jones]; p. 266: Back Beach [Martin Jones]; pp. 268–9: Basking Shark [Shane Wasik – Basking Shark Scotland]; p. 271: telescope [Martin Jones]; p. 272: Ringed Plover/Oystercatcher [Stella Clifford-Jones]; pp. 274–5: Loch Beg habitat [Barry Whenman – Mull by Drone]; p. 276: Swallows [Stella Clifford-Jones]; pp. 278–9: sunset [Martin Jones]. p. 291: Oystercatcher and wildlife, Caliach [Stella Clifford-Jones]. pp. 296–7: tree at Ulva Ferry [Martin Jones]. pp. 298–9: bothy ruin, Loch Bà [Stella Clifford-Jones]. p. 300: Loch Na Keal [Martin Jones].

Bibliography Many texts were used in the preparation of this book, and the following is not intended as a comprehensive reference so much as a list of some sources consulted that hopefully might be of interest to the enquiring reader. The historic texts are often able to be purchased in different forms, available online or accessible as library texts. Many can be viewed by appointment in the Mull Museum, Tobermory. All the other texts are readily available to purchase or are freely available online.

Historical texts consulted Anon. (1845) The New Statistical Account of Scotland. Vol. 7, Renfrewe–Argyll. Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons. Accessed at: https://www.electricscotland. com/history/statistical/volume7.htm [accessed 1 June 2020]. Anon. (1890) Lobster culture in the Isle of Mull. Nature 42: 399. https://doi.org/10.1038/​ 042399a0 [accessed 1 June 2020]. Bannerman, D.A. and Lodge, G.E. (1956) The Birds of the British Isles. Vol. 5. Edinburgh and London: Oliver and Boyd. Baxter, E.V. and Rintoul, J.V. (1953) The Birds of Scotland. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd. Boswell, J. (1746) The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LLD. In Chapman, R.W. (ed) (1974) Johnson and Boswell, A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland and The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides. London: Oxford University Press. Carmichael, A. (1900) Carmina Gadelica: Hymns and Incantations. Edinburgh: T. & A. Constable. Darling, F.F. (1955) West Highland Survey. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Forbes, A.R. (1909) Gaelic Names of Beasts (Mammalia), Birds, Fishes, Insects, Reptiles, etc. Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd. Gordon, S. (1943) Wild Birds in Britain. London: B.T. Batsford Ltd. Graham, H.D. (1890) The Birds of Iona and Mull, 1852–70, edited by Harvie-Brown, J.A. Edinburgh: David Douglas. Harvie-Brown, J.A. and Buckley, T.E. (1892) A Vertebrate Fauna of the Inner Hebrides. Edinburgh: T. & A. Constable. Lightfoot, J. (1777) Flora Scotica: or, a Systematic Arrangement, in the Linnaean Method, of the Native Plants of Scotland and the Hebrides. London: B. White. MacDonald, J. (1811) A General View of the Agriculture of the Hebrides or Western Isles of Scotland. Edinburgh: Alex Smellie. MacCulloch, J. (1819) A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland, including the Isle of Man. Vol. 1. London: J. Moyes. MacFarlane, A.M. (1924) Gaelic Plant Names: Study of Their Uses and Lore. Inverness: Gaelic Society of Inverness. MacLean, J.P. (1923) History of the Island of Mull. Vol. 1. Greenville, Ohio: Frank H. Jones & Son. MacLeod, M.C. (ed) (1908) Modern Gaelic Bards. Stirling: Eneas Mackay.

Bibliography

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MacNab, P.A. (1970) The Isle of Mull. Newton Abbot: David & Charles. McKay, M.M. (ed) (1980) The Rev. Dr. John Walker’s Report on the Hebrides of 1764 and 1771. Edinburgh: John Donald. Martin, M. (1716) A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland. London: Andrew Bell. Monro, D. (1961) Western Isles of Scotland and Genealogies of the Clans, 1549. Reprint. Edinburgh & London: Oliver & Boyd. Pennant, T. (1772) A Tour in Scotland. London: Benjamin White. Ritchie, J. (1920) The Influence of Man on Animal Life in Scotland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sinclair, J. (ed) (1799) The Old Statistical Account of Scotland, 1791–1799. Edinburgh: William Creech. St John, C. (1919) Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands. T.N. Foulis (reprinted 1980, James Thinn, Mercat Press, Edinburgh). Witherby, H.F., Jourdain, F.C.R., Ticehurst, N. and Tucker, B. (1952) The Handbook of British Birds. Vol. 2, Warblers to Owls. London: H.F. & G. Witherby.

Other useful texts Balmer, D.E., Gillings, S., Caffrey, B.J., Swann, R.J., Downie, I.S. and Fuller, R.J. (2013) Bird Atlas 2007–11. The Breeding and Wintering Birds of Britain and Ireland. Thetford: British Trust for Ornithology. Berry, R.J. (1983) Evolution of animals and plants in the Inner Hebrides. In J.M. Boyd and D.R. Bowes (op. cit.), pp. 433–448. Boyd, J.M. and Bowes, D.R. (eds) (1983) Natural Environment of the Inner Hebrides. Edinburgh: Royal Society of Edinburgh. Campbell, R.N. and Williamson, R.B. (1983) Salmon and freshwater fishes of the Inner Hebrides. In J.M. Boyd and D.R. Bowes (op. cit.), pp. 245–265. Cocker, M. and Mabey, R. (2005) Birds Britannica. London: Chatto and Windus. Dipper, F. (ed.) (2018) Intertidal and sublittoral survey of islands within the Staffa Island group, Inner Hebrides. September 16–20, 2016. A Porcupine Marine Natural History Society field trip. http://pmnhs.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Staffa_Report_Final_SNH.pdf [accessed 20 July 2020]. Evans, D.M., Redpath, S.M., Evans, S.A., Elston, D.A., Gardner, C.J., Dennis, P. and Pakeman, R.J. (2006) Low intensity, mixed livestock grazing improves the breeding abundance of a common insectivorous passerine. Biology Letters 2: 636–638. Evans, J.G. (1976) The Environment of Early Man in the British Isles. London: Paul Elek. Gray, J.M. (1981) P-forms from the Isle of Mull. Scottish Journal of Geology 17: 39–47. Jamie, K. (2005) Findings. London: Sort of Books. Jermy, A.C. and Crabbe, J.A. (eds) (1978) The Island of Mull: A Survey of its Flora and Environment. London: British Museum (Natural History). Johnson, A. (1991) Norse settlement in the Inner Hebrides ca 800–1300 with special reference to the islands of Mull, Coll and Tiree. Unpublished PhD thesis, St Andrews University. Jones, R. (2014) Mull in the Making. Oban: Clunie Group.

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Long, J.L. (2003) Introduced Mammals of the World: their History, Distribution and Abundance. Collingwood, Australia: CSIRO Publishing and Wallingford, UK: CABI Publishing. Mabey, R. (1996) Flora Brittanica. London: Chatto & Windus. MacLean, J.E., Genney, D., Hall, J., Mitchell, R.J., Burslem, F.R.P. and Pakeman, R.J. (2019) The effect of clearing invasive Rhododendron ponticum on the native plant community of Atlantic oak woodland. Scottish Natural Heritage Research Report No. 1157. Marquiss, M., Madders, M., Irvine, J. and Carss, D.N. (2003) The impact of White-tailed Eagles on sheep farming on Mull. Report to Scottish Natural Heritage. McKirdy, A. (2017) Mull, Iona and Ardnamurchan: Landscapes in Stone. Edinburgh: Birlinn Ltd. Piggott, S. (ed) (1962) The Prehistoric Peoples of Scotland. London: Routledge. Reed, T.M., Currie, A. and Love, J.A. (1983) Birds of the Inner Hebrides. In J.M. Boyd and D.R. Bowes (op. cit.), pp. 449–472. Roy, S., Milborrow, J., Allan, J. and Robertson, P. (2012) Pine martens on the Isle of Mull. Assessing risks to native species. Scottish Natural Heritage Commissioned Report 560. Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland (1980) Argyll: an inventory of the monuments. Vol. 3. Edinburgh: HMSO. Rymer, L. (1976) The history and ethnobotany of bracken. Botanical Journal of the Linnean Society 73: 151–176. Schulting, R.J. and Richards, M. (2002) The wet, the wild and the domesticated: the Mesolithic–Neolithic transition on the west coast of Scotland. European Journal of Archaeology 5: 147–189. Scottish Natural Heritage (2016) Deer management in Scotland: report to the Scottish Government. https://www.nature.scot/deer-management-scotland-report-scottishgovernment-scottish-natural-heritage-2016 [accessed 30 April 2020]. Smout, T.C. (2014) What’s natural: a species history of Scotland in the last 10,000 years. The Glasgow Naturalist 26: 11–16. Usher, M.B. (2000) The nativeness and non-nativeness of species. Watsonia 23: 323–326. Walker, M.J.C. and Lowe, J.J. (1985) Flandrian environmental history of the Isle of Mull, Scotland. Pollen-stratigraphic evidence and radio carbon dates from Glen More, southcentral Mull. New Phytologist 99: 587–610. Watson, J., Leitch, A.F. and Rae, S.R. (2008) The diet of Golden Eagles Aquila chrysaetos in Scotland. Ibis 135: 387–393. Westland, J. (2017) Mull geology. http://mullgeology.net [accessed 2 March 2020]. Whitfield, D.P., McLeod, D.R.A., Fielding, A.H., Broad, R.A., Evans, R.J. and Haworth, P.F. (2001) The effects of forestry on Golden Eagles on the island of Mull, western Scotland. Journal of Applied Ecology 38: 1208–1220. Whitfield, D.P., Marquiss, M., Reid, R., Grant, J., Tingay, R. and Evans, R.J. (2013) Breeding season diets of sympatric White-tailed Eagles and Golden Eagles in Scotland: no evidence for competitive effects. Bird Study 60: 67–76. Woods, M., McDonald, R.A. and Harris, S. (2003) Predation of wildlife by domestic cats Felis catus in Great Britain. Mammal Review 33: 174–188. Woolley, A.R. and Jermy, A.C. (1978) Geology. In A.C. Jermy and J.A. Crabbe (op. cit.).

Useful Contacts for Further Information Hebridean Whale and Dolphin Trust www.hwdt.org/contact Email: [email protected] Mull Bird Club www.mullbirdclub.org.uk Mull Birds (to report sightings) www.mullbirds.com Email: [email protected] Mull Otter Group www.mullottergroup.co.uk Email: [email protected] RSPB Mull www.rspb.org.uk Email: [email protected] Bat Conservation Trust www.bats.org.uk British Bryological Society www.britishbryologicalsociety.org.uk British Dragonfly Society www.british-dragonflies.org.uk British Lichen Society www.britishlichensociety.org.uk Bumblebee Conservation Trust www.bumblebeeconservation.org Butterfly Conservation Scotland www.butterfly-conservation.org Mammal Society www.mammal.org.uk The National Biodiversity Network (NBN) (for data records) www.nbn.org.uk

Watching and Photographing Wildlife on Mull Don’t be disappointed if a wild animal doesn’t present itself when and how you would like. The best wildlife experiences come from seeing animals when they choose to be visible and are at ease in their environment. When disturbed they can become stressed and guarded. If their private space is intruded upon too often or too closely they may hide from view or, in a worst case, desert an area altogether and even abandon young. By not encroaching intimately into their world, and taking care to avoid stressing them, most birds and mammals on Mull will happily coexist with us. At an appropriate distance, people who are patient and unobtrusive will be richly rewarded. It is always a privilege to watch and photograph them – never a right.

Species Referred to in the Text Common (English) names have been used throughout the book. These are capitalised if they refer to a single species, whereas lower case denotes broader taxonomic groupings, such as families. For readers who are unfamiliar with the common names this list provides the scientific names too. The common names and scientific names have been obtained from the National Biodiversity Network (NBN) except for higher plants (except orchids), which follow The New Flora of the British Isles (4th edn) by Clive Stace; and orchids which follow Britain’s Orchids by Sean Cole and Mike Waller. Some species have no recognised vernacular names but, for example with lichens and fungi, common names are being adopted and have been used in the book. Many species have additional common names, in which case these are often included: for instance, the White-tailed Eagle is often referred to as the Sea Eagle. Species mentioned in passing but which are not present on Mull are excluded from the following list.

Fungi

Amethyst Deceiver�������������Laccaria amethystina Blackening Brittlegill�����������������Russula nigricans Chanterelle�������������������������� Cantharellus cibarius Fly Agaric���������������������������������Amanita muscaria Glue Fungus (Glue Crust) �����������������������������������Hymenochaete corrugata Hazel Gloves����������������Hypocreopsis rhododendri Horn of Plenty������������Craterellus cornucopioides Shaggy Scalycap�����������������������Pholiota squarrosa Sulphur Tuft����������������������Hypholoma fasciculare Yellow Brain Fungus���������� Tremella mesenterica

Lichens

barnacle lichens��������������������������� Thelotrema spp. Textured Lungwort (‘Lob Scrob’) �������������������������������������������Lobaria scrobiculata Octopus Suckers���������������������� Gabura fasicularis Reindeer Lichen�������������������Cladonia rangiferina Secret Writing Lichen�������������������Graphis scripta

Ferns

Bracken�������������������������������� Pteridium aquilinum Broad Buckler-fern����������������� Dryopteris dilatata Killarney Fern����������������� Trichomanes speciosum Tunbridge Filmy-fern ���������������������������� Hymenophyllum tunbrigense Hard-fern������������������������������������Blechnum spicant Hart’s-tongue Fern����������Phyllitis scolopendrium Polypody���������������������������������Polypodium vulgare Maidenhair Spleenwort ������������������������������������� Asplenium trichomanes

Conifers

Juniper (Common)���������������Juniperus communis Scots Pine����������������������������������������Pinus sylvestris Sitka Spruce������������������������������������Picea sitchensis

Flowering Plants

Alder����������������������������������������������� Alnus glutinosa Blueberry�������������������������������Vaccinium myrtillus Bird’s-nest Orchid�������������������� Neottia nidus-avis Bluebell������������������������Hyacinthoides non-scripta Bog Asphodel�������������������Narthecium ossifragum Bog Orchid������������������������ Hammarbya paludosa Bog-myrtle�������������������������������������������Myrica gale Broad-leaved Helleborine��� Epipactis helleborine Broad-leaved Marsh-orchid ������������������������������������������Dactylorhiza majalis Bugle��������������������������������������������������Ajuga reptans Chalk Fragrant-orchid�����Gymnadenia conopsea Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil��� Lotus corniculatus Common Dog-violet���������������������Viola riviniana Common Ragwort���������������������Jacobaea vulgaris Common Spotted-orchid���� Dactylorhiza fuchsii Common Twayblade������������������������Neottia ovata Coralroot Orchid������������������� Corallorhiza trifida Cottongrass���������������� Eriophorum angustifolium Cotton Thistle����������������� Onopordum acanthium Creeping Willow��������������������������������� Salix repens Cyphel��������������������������������������Minuartia sedoides Devil’s-bit Scabious��������������������Succisa pratensis Downy Birch�������������������������������Betula pubescens Dwarf Willow����������������������������������Salix herbacea Early Marsh-orchid���������Dactylorhiza incarnata



Species Referred to in the Text

Early-purple Orchid��������������������� Orchis mascula English Stonecrop����������������������� Sedum anglicum eyebrights��������������������������������������� Euphrasia spp. Field Gentian���������������������Gentianella campestris Frog Orchid���������������������������� Dactylorhiza viride Germander Speedwell�������� Veronica chamaedrys Gorse���������������������������������������������� Ulex europaeus Grass-of-Parnassus����������������� Parnassia palustris Great Sundew��������������������������������Drosera anglica Greater Butterfly-orchid �������������������������������������� Platanthera chlorantha Hairy Stonecrop��������������������������� Sedum villosum Harebell��������������������������� Campanula rotundifolia Hazel��������������������������������������������� Corylus avellana Heath Spotted-orchid����� Dactylorhiza maculata Heather���������������������������������������� Calluna vulgaris Herb Robert���������������������Geranium robertianum Iceland-purslane���������������������� Koenigia islandica Irish Lady’s-tresses������Spiranthes romanzoffiana Japanese Knotweed��������������Reynoutria japonica Lady’s Bedstraw������������������������������Galium verum Lesser Butterfly-orchid�����������Platanthera bifolia Lesser Meadow-rue������������������Thalictrum minus Lesser Twayblade�������������������������� Neottia cordata Marsh Thistle������������������������������ Cirsium palustre Marsh Woundwort��������������������� Stachys palustris Meadow Buttercup�������������������� Ranunculus acris Monkeyflower������������������������Erythranthe guttata Narrow-leaved Helleborine ����������������������������������� Cephalanthera longifolia Northern Deergrass��� Trichophorum cespitosum Northern Marsh-orchid ������������������������������������ Dactylorhiza purpurella Northern Rock-cress�������������Arabidopsis petraea Pedunculate Oak�����������������������������Quercus robur Pignut��������������������������������������Conopodium majus Primrose��������������������������������������Primula vulgaris Pugsley’s Marsh-orchid ������������������������Dactylorhiza traunsteinerioides Ragged-Robin����������������������������� Silene flos-cuculi Red Campion������������������������������������� Silene dioica Red Clover�������������������������������� Trifolium pratense Rhododendron�������������Rhododendron ponticum Roseroot������������������������������������������ Rhodiola rosea Round-leaved Sundew���������Drosera rotundifolia Rowan�����������������������������������������Sorbus aucuparia Scottish Primrose������������������������� Primula scotica Sea Campion�����������������������������������Silene uniflora seagrasses (eelgrasses)������������������������Zostera spp.

289

Selfheal���������������������������������������� Prunella vulgaris Sessile Oak������������������������������������Quercus petraea Silverweed�������������������������������� Potentilla anserina Small-white Orchid�����������������Pseudorchis albida Sneezewort�������������������������������� Achillea ptarmica St John’s-worts������������������������������ Hypericum spp. Stone Bramble��������������������������������Rubus saxatilis Thrift�����������������������������������������Armeria maritima Thyme (Wild)������������������������� Thymus polytrichus Tormentil�������������������������������������� Potentilla erecta Valerian���������������������������������� Valeriana officinalis Wild Carrot�������������������������������������Daucus carota willows����������������������������������������������������� Salix spp. Wood Anemone���������������������Anemone nemorosa Wych Elm������������������������������������������Ulmus glabra Yellow Iris�������������������������������������Iris pseudacorus Yellow Pimpernel����������������Lysimachia nemorum

Invertebrates

Acorn Barnacle���������������Semibalanus balanoides Argent and Sable�����������������Rheumaptera hastata Arctic Smudge�����������������������������������Plutella haasi August Thorn����������������������Ennomos quercinaria Azure Damselfly���������������������� Coenagrion puella barnacles�������������������������������infraclass Cirripedia Beautiful Demoiselle������������������ Calopteryx virgo Bedstraw Hawk-moth�������������������������� Hyles gallii Belted Beauty����������������������������������� Lycia zonaria Black Darter����������������������������� Sympetrum danae Blue-tailed Damselfly������������������Ischnura elegans Buff Ermine�����������������������������������Spilosoma lutea Buff Footman������������������������������� Eilema depressa caddisflies����������������������������������order Trichoptera Chequered Skipper����Carterocephalus palaemon Cinnabar����������������������������������������Tyria jacobaeae Comma�������������������������������������Polygonia c-album Common Blue Damselfly �������������������������������������Enallagma cyathigerum Common Blue (butterfly)����Polyommatus icarus Common Darter��������������� Sympetrum striolatum Common Hawker���������������������������Aeshna juncea dor beetles���������������������������������������Geotropes spp. Emerald Damselfly��������������������������� Lestes sponsa Feathered Thorn����������������������� Colotois pennaria Flat-ridged Nomad Bee�������Nomada obtusifrons Forester�������������������������������������������Adscita statices Four-spotted Chaser��� Libellula quadrimaculata Golden-ringed Dragonfly ����������������������������������������Cordulegaster boltonii

290

Wild Mull

Grayling������������������������������������ Hipparchia semele Green Hairstreak�������������������������� Callophrys rubi Green Shore Crab���������������������� Carcinus maenas Great Yellow Bumblebee ��������������������������������������� Bombus distinguendus Honey Bee���������������������������������������� Apis mellifera Keeled Skimmer�������������� Orthetrum coerulescens King Scallop���������������������������������Pecten maximus Large Red Damselfly������� Pyrrhosoma nymphula limpets������������������������������������������� order Patellidae Marsh Fritillary����������������������Euphydryas aurinia Narrow-bordered Bee Hawk-moth ���������������������������������������������������� Hemaris tityus Midge��������������������������������Culicoides impunctatus Northern Emerald���������������Somatochlora arctica Norway Lobster (Prawn, Langoustine, scampi) ������������������������������������������ Nephrops norvegicus Orange-tip���������������������� Anthocharis cardamines Painted Lady����������������������������������� Vanessa cardui Pale Pinion����������������������������������Lithophane socia Pearl-bordered Fritillary��������Boloria euphrosyne Rannoch Brindled Beauty���������Lycia lapponaria Queen Scallop�����������������Aequipecten opercularis Red Admiral��������������������������������Vanessa atalanta Scotch Argus����������������������������������Erebia aethiops Six-spot Burnet�������������������� Zygaena filipendulae Slender Scotch Burnet����������� Zygaena loti scotica Small Flecked Mining Bee��������� Andrena coitana Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary������Boloria selene Southern Hawker��������������������������� Aeshna cyanea Transparent Burnet��������������� Zygaena purpuralis Varroa Mite������������������������������� Varroa destructor Vestal�������������������������������������Rhodometra sacraria White Ermine���������������������Spilosoma lubricipeda White-tailed Bumblebee����������� Bombus lucorum

Fishes

Arctic Charr������������������������������ Salvelinus alpinus Atlantic Cod�����������������������������������Gadus morhua Atlantic Salmon�����������������������������������Salmo salar Basking Shark�����������������������Cetorhinus maximus Blue Skate���������������������������������������� Dipturus batis Blue-fin Tuna�����������������������������Thunnus thynnus Brook Charr���������������������������Salvelinus fontinalis Brook Lamprey��������������������������Lampetra planeri Brown/Sea Trout��������������������������������Salmo trutta Butterfish��������������������������������������Pholis gunnellus Flapper Skate�������������������������Dipturus intermedia Gudgeon���������������������������������������������� Gobio gobio

Herring���������������������������������������� Clupea harengus Mackerel�����������������������������������Scomber scombrus Nine-spined Stickleback������� Pungitius pungitius Pike���������������������������������������������������������Esox lucius Rainbow Trout��������������������Oncorhynchus mykiss Sun-fish�������������������������������������������������� Mola mola Tench����������������������������������������������������� Tinca tinca Three-spined Stickleback ��������������������������������������� Gasterosteus aculeatus

Amphibians and reptiles

Adder��������������������������������������������������Vipera berus Common Frog��������������������������� Rana temporaria Common Lizard�������������������������Zootoca vivipara Common Toad���������������������������������������� Bufo bufo Palmate Newt�����������������������Lissotriton helveticus Slow Worm�������������������������������������� Anguis fragilis Leatherback (Leathery) Turtle������������������������������Dermochelys coriacea

Birds

Barn Owl��������������������������������������������������Tyto alba Black Grouse�������������������������������������� Tetrao tetrix Black Guillemot������������������������������Cepphus grylle Blackcap���������������������������������������Sylvia atricapilla Black-throated Diver������������������������Gavia arctica Buzzard������������������������������������������������ Buteo buteo Chough������������������������� Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax Common Guillemot������������������������������Uria aalge Common Gull�������������������������������������Larus canus Common Tern�������������������������������Sterna hirundo Corncrake�������������������������������������������������Crex crex Crossbill�������������������������������������� Loxia curvirostra Cuckoo����������������������������������������� Cuculus canorus Curlew���������������������������������������Numenius arquata Dipper��������������������������������������������� Cinclus cinclus Eider�������������������������������������Somateria mollissima Fulmar��������������������������������������� Fulmarus glacialis Gannet������������������������������������������ Morus bassanus Golden Eagle������������������������������Aquila chrysaetos Goosander�������������������������������� Mergus merganser Grasshopper Warbler����������������Locustella naevia Grey Partridge�����������������������������������Perdix perdix Greylag Goose������������������������������������� Anser anser Great Northern Diver����������������������Gavia immer Greater Black-backed Gull����������� Larus marinus Hen Harrier������������������������������������ Circus cyaneus Herring Gull��������������������������������Larus argentatus Hooded Crow���������������������������������� Corvus cornix



Species Referred to in the Text

Kittiwake���������������������������������������� Rissa tridactyla Lapwing�������������������������������������� Vanellus vanellus Lesser Black-backed Gull����������������� Larus fuscus Long-eared Owl���������������������������������������Asio otus Manx Shearwater����������������������� Puffinus puffinus Meadow Pipit������������������������������ Anthus pratensis Nightjar���������������������������� Caprimulgus europaeus Oystercatcher������������������� Haematopus ostralegus Peregrine.��������������������������������������Falco peregrinus Pheasant����������������������������������Phasianus colchicus Ptarmigan���������������������������������������� Lagopus muta Puffin�������������������������������������������Fratercula arctica Raven��������������������������������������������������Corvus corax Razorbill��������������������������������������������������Alca torda Red Grouse�����������������������������������Lagopus lagopus Red-breasted Merganser��������������Mergus serrator Red-throated Diver������������������������� Gavia stellata Scottish Crossbill������������������������������ Loxia scotica Shelduck�������������������������������������� Tadorna tadorna Short-eared Owl���������������������������� Asio flammeus Siskin��������������������������������������������������Spinus spinus Skylark������������������������������������������ Alauda arvensis Snipe�����������������������������������������Gallinago gallinago Sparrowhawk����������������������������������Accipiter nisus Stonechat������������������������������������ Saxicola rubicola Storm Petrel��������������������������Hydrobates pelagicus Tawny Owl��������������������������������������������� Strix aluco Wheatear��������������������������������� Oenanthe oenanthe White-tailed Eagle������������������Haliaeetus albicilla Wood Warbler�������������������� Phylloscopus trochilus Woodcock����������������������������������Scolopax rusticola Wren�����������������������������������Troglodytes troglodytes Yellowhammer����������������������� Emberiza citronella

Oystercatcher and wildlife, Caliach

Mammals

291

Badger���������������������������������������������������Meles meles Bottlenose Dolphin�����������������Tursiops truncatus Brown Hare��������������������������������� Lepus europaeus Brown Long-eared Bat���������������� Plecotus auritus Common Dolphin (Short-beaked) ����������������������������������������������� Delphinus delphis Common Pipistrelle��������� Pipistrellus pipistrellus Common (Harbour) Seal��������������Phoca vitulina Cuvier’s Beaked Whale����������� Ziphius cavirostris Fallow Deer���������������������������������������� Dama dama Ferret������������������������������������Mustela putorius furo Field Vole (Short-tailed Vole)���Microtus agrestis Fox������������������������������������������������������Vulpes vulpes Grey Seal����������������������������������Halichoerus grypus Harbour Porpoise������������������Phocoena phocoena Humpback Whale���������� Megaptera novaeangliae Irish Hare������������������������� Lepus timidus hibericus Killer Whale (Orca)���������������������������Orcinus orca Long-finned Pilot Whale�������Globicephala melas Mink (American)��������������������������Neovison vison Minke Whale������������� Balaenoptera acutorostrata Mole������������������������������������������������ Talpa europaea Mountain Hare��������������������������������Lepus timidus Otter�������������������������������������������������������Lutra lutra Pine Marten�������������������������������������Martes martes Polecat������������������������������������������Mustela putorius Rabbit����������������������������������Oryctolagus cuniculus Red Deer�����������������������������������������Cervus elaphus Risso’s Dolphin���������������������������� Grampus griseus Roe Deer���������������������������������Capreolus capreolus Sika Deer������������������������������������������Cervus nippon Soprano Pipistrelle�������������Pipistrellus pygmaeus Stoat����������������������������������������������Mustela erminea Weasel���������������������������������������������Mustela nivalis

Index A

Adder ​98–9 Africa ​124, 148, 160, 166, 250, 263, 266 ammonite ​18, 19 Ardmeanach ​7, 20, 23, 24, 213, 254 Ardtun leaf beds ​19 Aros ​39, 42, 101, 131, 156, 171, 182, 183, 186, 200, 224 Asphodel, Bog ​210, 211

B

Badger ​10, 69, 90 Baker, J.A. ​3, 147 baleen ​234, 267 Barnacles ​220, 221 Acorn ​220 basalt ​14, 19, 23, 24, 26, 213 Basking Shark ​11, 229, 269 bats Brown Long-eared ​97 Common Pipistrelle ​96, 97 Daubenton’s ​97 Greater Horseshoe ​245 Natterer’s ​98 Soprano Pipistrelle ​97 Beatons ​208 bees Bumblebee, Great Yellow ​244 Common Carder ​242 Cuckoo ​243 Honey ​244 Mining, Small Flecked ​243 Nomad, Flat-ridged ​243 Beetle (Dung) Dor Beetle ​245 Ben More ​vii, xi, 6, 7, 24, 57, 212, 251 bere (barley) ​49 Bird’s-foot-trefoil, Common ​77, 206, 254 Bishop Leslie ​53 Black Beach ​32, 218, 266 ‘Black’ houses ​50 Blackcap ​154, 155, 267 Bloodstone ​38, 39 Bluebells ​7, 170, 193, 195, 198, 207, 275 Bonawe ironworks ​44

Boswell, James ​4, 45 Bouguer Gravity Anomaly ​25 Braes of Balquhidder (The) ​191 British Museum (Natural History) ​175, 188, 189, 193 Bronze Age ​41, 42, 132 Bunessan ​23 Butterfish ​90, 219 butterflies ​246–50 adaptations ​248 Chequered Skipper ​246 Comma ​246 Common Blue ​248 generalist ​250 Green Hairstreak ​248 migrant ​249 Orange-tip ​192, 249 Painted Lady ​249 Purple Hairstreak ​246 Scotch Argus ​249 buzz pollination ​242 Buzzard ​104, 120, 121

C

Calgary ​5, 23, 26, 27, 71, 153, 205, 206, 233, 234 Caliach ​74, 139, 152, 204, 229 Carroll, Lewis ​245 Carrot, Wild ​210 Carsaig ​7, 18, 19, 95 cattle ​42–57, 56, 84 Chough ​63 Clark, Francis William ​57 Clearances ​1, 65, 95 climate change ​62, 93, 154, 155, 157, 166, 213, 246, 249, 251, 263, 266, 267, 269, 276 Cod, Atlantic ​226 Colonsay ​63, 138, 244 Colosseum (Rome) ​59 Columba, St ​15, 41, 208 Corncrake ​73, 164, 165 Coronation Meadow (Treshnish Farm) ​264 Cotoneaster ​77, 254 COVID-19 (Coronavirus) ​132, 261, 263, 265

Index Crab, Green Shore ​219 Croig ​54, 223 Crossbill ​46, 62, 63, 150 Scottish ​62 Crow, Hooded ​126, 158 Crumley, Jim ​8, 10 Cuckoo ​73, 159, 166, 263 Curlew ​50, 161, 163, 164 Cyphel ​212

D

Da Vinci, Leonardo ​16 damselflies ​211, 257–8 Darwin, Charles ​192, 220 deer densities ​88 Fallow ​67, 81, 89 Red ​10, 39, 58, 65, 66, 68, 80, 81, 84, 86, 87, 88, 89 Roe ​67, 81 Sika ​68 Dervaig ​34, 39, 41, 129, 146, 161 Dipper ​155, 156 Diver Black-throated ​142, 276 Great Northern ​142, 143, 276 Red-throated ​142, 274, 276 Doctrine of Signatures ​176 Dog-violet, Common ​207, 246 Dolphin Bottlenose ​232 Risso’s ​232 Short-beaked (Common) ​232 Dragonflies ​255–6 Dumfries fur market ​75, 92 dykes ​26, 27 Cleveland Dyke ​27 Mull Dyke Swarm ​27

E

Eagle ​x Golden ​114–17 White-tailed ​107–14 Eider ​80, 141, 222

F

Fairbairns, Richard ​232 famine ​51, 57, 179, 209, 226

293

farming arable ​29–30, 42, 46, 50, 51, 63, 197 hill ​52 in-bye ​63 lazy beds ​49, 50, 57, 277 mussel ​141, 222 oyster ​222 salmon ​222, 239, 271 ferns ​202–4 Bracken ​49, 50–2, 54, 55, 195–9 Ferret ​76, 81, 92 Fingal’s Cave ​7, 25, 26 fishing creel ​224, 225, 271 hand-dived ​224 sport ​92, 100, 226 trawlers ​136, 225, 226, 266 Flora Scotica ​194, 197 Fox ​68, 69, 81, 95, 109 Fraser Darling, Frank ​88, 236 Fritillary Dark Green ​198 Marsh ​247 Pearl-bordered ​246 Small Pearl-bordered ​246 Frog ​90, 99 Fulmar ​134, 136 fungi ​180–8 eating ​186–7 Glue Fungus (Glue Crust) ​188 Hazel Gloves ​188 spore dispersal ​181

G

Gannet ​140 Garnett, Thomas ​48 glaciers ​6, 23, 27, 28, 29, 171 Glengorm ​77, 131, 265 Glen More ​25, 29, 58, 86, 88, 108, 116 Gneiss, Lewisian ​23 Gometra ​3, 7, 57, 77, 94, 95 Goosander ​141 Goose, Greylag ​110, 112 Graham, Henry Davenport ​83, 88, 92, 106, 115, 117, 122, 134, 163 Grasspoint ​10, 54, 66, 87, 104, 195 Great Glen Fault ​21, 22 Greenhill Gardyne, Colonel ​65, 67, 150

294

Wild Mull

Gribun ​7, 23, 76, 106, 109, 115, 145, 172, 206 Grouse ​63, 116, 117, 120, 161 Black ​63, 118 Red ​63, 161 Guillemot ​138, 139 Gulf Stream ​32, 238 Gull Glaucous ​144 Greater Black-backed ​144 Herring ​130, 145 Iceland ​144 Lesser Black-backed ​144 Gunnera ​77

H

haar ​5 Hare Brown ​70, 71, 81 Irish ​71 Mountain ​70, 71, 81, 110, 116, 161 Harrier, Hen ​73, 84, 106, 117–20, 158, 159 Heather ​52, 63, 116, 161, 179, 212 Hebridean Whale and Dolphin Trust (HWDT) ​232, 234 Herring ​223, 226 hunter-gatherers ​38, 39, 40, 57 hunting ​45, 51, 65, 72, 75, 95, 161, 229, 266 Hutton, James ​16–17, 19, 21, 27

I

I know where I’m going, film ​115 Ice Age ​27, 43, 78, 193 Iceland-purslane ​212, 213 International Monetary Fund (IMF) ​238 intertidal zone ​217–19 invasive species ​9, 54, 68, 72, 75, 194, 195, 227, 254 Iona ​7, 8, 15, 16, 22, 23, 33, 41, 113, 165 Marble ​33 St Columba’s Bay ​15, 16, 33 Iris, Yellow ​193, 194 Iron Age ​41, 42

J

Jacobite Rebellion 1745 ​132 (impact on shooting) ​69 Jamie, Kathleen ​147, 231 Japanese Knotweed ​60, 76 Johnson, Samuel ​4, 45

K

Kelp ​50, 57, 83, 218, 222 Kittiwake ​144, 267 kleptoparasitism ​110, 139, 243 Knock ​24, 67, 89, 142 Kyloes ​52, 53

L

Lamprey, Brook ​103 Lapwing ​73, 80, 158, 164, 263 Lazy beds (feannagan) ​49, 50, 57, 277 lichens ​174–9 uses of ​179 Lightfoot, John ​194, 197, 210 Limpet ​220, 221 Little Colonsay ​219 Livingstone Cave ​39, 57, 69 Lizard ​82, 99 Loch Bà ​24, 25, 102, 105, 114, 173, 246, 262 Loch Bà Ring Dyke ​24, 25 Loch Beg ​274 Loch Buie (loch) ​3, 22, 63, 143, 144, 274 Lochbuie (settlement) ​22, 67, 70, 76, 78, 89, 99, 100, 224 Loch Cuin ​40, 151, 163 Lochdon ​22, 29, 87, 151, 274 Loch na Keal ​xi, 7–9, 28, 29, 49, 50, 57, 110, 112, 133, 140, 142, 143, 151, 173 Loch Spelve ​22 Loch Uisg ​22, 101, 102 Lunga ​7, 13, 137–9, 144, 236

M

MacCulloch, John ​19, 20, 214 machair ​30, 205, 206, 252 Mackerel ​223, 232, 234 Maclaine of Lochbuie, The ​64, 100, 139, 155 MacMhuirich, Angus ​52 MacPhail, Dugald ​1, 2, 6, 191 maerl ​227, 228 Marine Protected Area ​227, 230 Marten, Pine ​9, 39, 71–4, 81, 83, 117, 125 Martin Martin ​2, 44, 52, 69, 164 Mendelssohn, Felix ​26 Merganser, Red-breasted ​141 Mesolithic Period ​36, 37, 38, 39, 43, 220 midges ​97, 210, 259 Mink ​9, 71, 72, 73, 74, 81, 84, 110, 117, 144, 158

Index Mite, Varroa ​244 Mithen, Steven ​38 Moine rock ​23 Mole ​81, 93–4 monetisation of nature ​245 monitoring ​111, 126, 135, 140, 143, 157, 213 Monkeyflower ​194 Mother Carey ​135 moths ​250–4 Arctic Smudge (Plutella haasi) ​251 Argent and Sable ​250 Belted Beauty ​251, 252, 253 Buff Ermine ​250 Cinnabar ​253 flightless ​251, 252 Forester ​253 micro- ​96, 250–1, 253 Rannoch Brindled Beauty ​251, 252 Slender Scotch Burnet ​77, 254 Transparent Burnet ​254 White Ermine ​250 Muileachs ​1, 222, 264 Muir, John ​6 muirburn ​42, 116 Mull Bird Club ​80 Mull Otter Group ​9 Mull Primrose, The (An t-sobhrach Mhuileach)  ​191 Murray, Hon. Mrs ​50

N

Nash, Ogden ​241 Neolithic Period ​40, 52, 53, 94 Newt, Palmate ​99 Nightjar ​157 Norway ​41, 124, 214 King Haakon of ​42

O

Oban ​3, 39, 149, 223 orchids ​199–201, 206, 264 identification of Heath-spotted ​199 Oronsay ​39 Osprey ​106 Otter ​vii, 9, 10, 38, 39, 83, 90–2, 110, 117, 262, 272, 274 Ötzi the Iceman ​180 Owl Barn ​72, 123, 124–6, 129

295

Long-eared ​106, 122 Short-eared ​47, 106, 122, 123–4, 147, 267, 276 Tawny ​122, 126–8 Oystercatcher ​50, 80, 163, 272

P

P-form ​28, 29 Partridge ​118 Grey ​64 peat ​30, 47, 50, 87, 151, 179, 189, 209, 210 Pennant, Thomas ​44, 67, 68 Peregrine ​106 Petrel, Storm ​13, 133–5 Pheasant ​118, 120, 150, 151 Pignut ​209, 210 Pike ​102 pin and thrum (reproduction) ​192 Pipit, Meadow ​55, 56, 117, 120, 159, 166 plankton ​11, 229, 268, 269 phytoplankton ​238, 269 zooplankton ​134, 135, 229, 269 Polecat ​71, 75, 76, 81, 117 pollination ​65, 192, 195, 215, 242, 244, 259 Polychlorinated Biphenyls (PCBs) ​91, 235, 266 Porpoise, Harbour ​11, 91, 230, 235 Port nan Ròn ​43 Potato ​42, 48, 49, 50, 51, 57 Primrose ​170, 191, 192 Ptarmigan ​116, 117, 120, 161, 162, 276 Puffin ​13, 80, 136, 137, 138, 267 ‘Puffing Pig’ see Porpoise

Q

Quinish ​20, 21, 44, 232

R

Rabbit ​68, 69, 71, 81, 117, 128, 162, 205 Rainforest Amazon ​36, 238 Celtic ​11, 45, 170, 171, 193, 266, 274 Temperate ​169, 170, 202 Raven ​109, 158, 159, 161, 167 Razorbill ​138, 139 ‘Red List’ endangered species ​73, 137, 158, 164 rewilding ​109, 111 Rhododendron ​ix, 60, 75, 77, 78, 172, 195

296

Wild Mull

Ritchie, James ​35, 59, 67 Roberton, Sir Hugh ​2 Rock-cress, Northern ​212, 251 Roseroot ​204, 205 Ross of Mull ​15, 22, 23, 52, 172, 246

S

Sacheverell, William ​48 Salen cattle market ​54 Scabious, Devil’s-bit ​208, 209, 247 Scotch Argus ​249 Scott, Sir Walter ​26, 215 Scottish Natural Heritage ​(SNH) 73, 74, 77 Seal ​110, 235 Grey ​13, 39, 236 Common ​39, 237 sheep ​42, 43, 45, 48–57, 65, 69, 84, 88, 94, 95, 98, 109, 115, 116, 117, 197, 205, 207, 247 Shelduck ​141 Shifting Baseline Syndrome ​262 shooting Barn Owl ​124 Bear ​59 Fox ​69 Golden Eagle ​115 Hare ​116 Hen Harrier ​118 Little Auk ​139 Pheasant ​150 Red Grouse ​161 Roller ​64 Woodcock ​151

Silverweed ​209 Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) ​ 205, 206 Skate ​226, 227 Blue ​227 Flapper ​226, 227 Skua Arctic ​139, 267 Great ​139, 267 Skunk cabbage ​79 Slow Worm ​98, 262, 263 Snipe ​151, 152, 164, 262 soil ​16, 18, 29, 30, 47, 49, 54, 55, 93, 174, 180, 213, 245 Sound of Mull ​7, 74, 139, 227, 233 Sparrowhawk ​121, 122, 166 Special Area of Conservation (SAC) ​13 Special Protection Area (SPA) ​74 Splatometer ​241 Staffa ​14, 25, 26, 42, 132, 137, 165 Stoat ​92, 117, 262 Stonecrop English ​204 Hairy ​212 strandline ​217, 263 Strandloopers ​38, 39 Sundew Great ​211 Round-leaved ​211 Sun-fish ​217, 267 Swallow ​135, 261, 276

Index

T

Tench ​102 Tern Arctic ​144, 267 Common ​vi, 74, 144 Thistle ​214 Cotton ​215 Marsh ​215 Three Lochs ​29, 116 Tireragan ​50, 51, 52, 172, 173 Toad ​99–100 Tobermory ​70, 101, 130, 145, 200, 223, 226, 231, 232 Treshnish Farm ​264 Treshnish Isles ​7, 63, 69, 81, 132–9, 165, 267 Treshnish Isles Auk Ringing Group ​135 Triggerfish, Grey ​238 Trout ​92, 100, 101, 102, 155 Brown/Sea ​101 Rainbow ​101 Tuna ​267 Turnstone ​164 Turtle, Leatherback ​217

297

U

Ulva ​x, xii, 3, 7, 39, 57, 69, 77, 239, 244, 253, 254

V

Vikings ​13, 41, 49, 57, 132, 167, 205 Vole, Field (or Short-tailed) ​84–5, 120, 124, 126

W

Walker, Rev. Dr John ​45, 69, 94, 109 Warbler, Grasshopper ​157 Watts, W.J. ​152, 161 West Highland Survey ​88 Whale ​110, 231, 238 Cuvier’s Beaked ​233, 267 Humpback ​233, 267 Killer (Orca) ​235 Long-finned Pilot ​233 Minke ​232, 233, 234, 235, 267 ‘Whale Pump’ effect ​238 Wheatear ​160, 261, 262 Willow Creeping ​43 Dwarf ​212 Goat ​171 Woodcock ​151, 152, 153, 164

Bothy ruin, Loch Bà

After the storm, Loch na Keal