I’m two weeks into a trip to Luing – pronounced “Ling” – in the Firth of Lorn in Argyll and Bute. From my “office” on a slate beach of the best skimmers in the world, I’ve witnessed beautiful sunsets, wild storms, snow and horizontal rain. Beneath me are thousands of sea-worn slates of all sizes, spoil from the long-gone mines of this Slate Isles archipelago. The Vikings used these waters long before the merchantmen and navy vessels, and there are still a few lobster men plying their trade here.
I first landed in 1971 and have regularly seen porpoises, bottlenose dolphins, minke whales and, on occasion, basking sharks, but no trip here is complete without otters. This time, the first ones surfaced during the two-minute ferry across Cuan Sound, soon followed by two more enjoying the flume ride along a spring water runnel, a “sheugh”, towards the open sea. Amid the splashing and spluttering as they blew across the surface of the water like kids in a bath, they drew me on through a lush flush of wild watercress which I collected to later make soup with. They led me to the remains of an earlier catch being cleaned up by gulls, with a white‑tailed sea eagle watching on.
The big bird looked a bit tatty in her winter weeds and headed off for the dark and jagged Belnahua, another of the Slate Isles. I spotted an increasingly rare great northern diver sailing offshore, body slung low in the water. These are winter visitors to the UK, favouring shallow coastal areas for the ready supply of fish, squid, crustaceans and molluscs. Occasionally nesting in Scotland, they breed in Iceland, Greenland and the other side of the Atlantic where they are known as loons, famously seen and heard in the film On Golden Pond.
The bird ducked its head under the surface then propelled itself down with its powerful webbed feet. The wings are then used for further propulsion. Diving to depths of up to 60m, they can stay submerged for three minutes and usually swallow the fish before surfacing. It is fun, if futile, to predict when and where the diver will emerge.
With its jewel-like red eyes, my diver, like the white-tail, was a little scruffy, as it was morphing into its remarkable black and white chequered summer plumage, like the kinetic paintings of Bridget Riley.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
