One of the reasons I love living in a house by the sea, is the wildlife that regularly walk across your path.
The sea loch across the road supplies me with it's heady fix of scents, its orchestra of sound from birds like the chattering oyster catchers and what has become a regular visit from a local otter.
Mark captured what we think is a mother and child, early one morning.
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152087248827924&set=vb.559722923&type=3
Early quiet mornings had been the best time to see them, but this winter they have become far more visible; strolling up the front path, jumping up onto the windowsills (??) and finally wreaking havoc on our chicken and duck population :/
Before Christmas 2014, we had 22 chickens and 4 large Aylesbury ducks, free ranging on a small part of the croft, away from the water edge. By January we were reduced to 3 remaining shell-shocked and confused chickens. At first we thought it was a dog killing the birds - we would find headless chickens (ignoring the pun) dotted around the croft, killed but not eaten. But one day Mark actually spotted the large, dog otter retreating into a field drain and next door's dog was pardoned.
As the local Raven, Buzzard and Eagle population caught onto the free buffet happening, the carcas finds were reduced to just wings and feet.
My loyaties are completely torn - I loved those ducks, having hatched them in the incubator and adored their ultimate cuteness. As adult they were so white and preened - during the winter when everything was drab and wet, they were happiest in the driving rain, cleaning themselves and honking around asking for food.
But the wild otters have always fascinated me too. Those hairy whiskers and long, sleek bodies.
One very hard, hail-y afternoon Mark and I were standing in the dining room when an otter jumped up onto the windowsill beside us. I think maybe it thought it could see a clear tunnel through the window, some escape from the elements. Seeing it so close up I could just image holding an otter in my arms, stroking it like you would a tame cat.....having said that, the gaelic name for otters translates to 'black beast' so any daydreams of hugging an otter are very misplaced.
In a way, we have the otter to thank thoughfor saving us from an unpleasant job. The chickens are about 5 years old now, and have stopped being reliable layers. We had already decided it was time to dispatch them, but Mark had got fed up of the unpleasant job involved. The otter attack means there are just 3 left to get rid of!
In that funny arrangement nature has with time and fate, the solution has presented itself cleanly.
If I have to choose between my tame poultry, or the wilderness of otters - it has to be wild for me.
