Oran the Sea Eagle, Jan 2010

'Oran' with the coast of Donegal in the distance.


'ORAN' by James MacDonald.

Forward.

I wrote this account in the early Spring of 2010, and since then have been keeping a close eye on Oran's wanderings around Scotland.
I was able to do so using the RSPB's webpage dedicated to the Mull Sea Eagles - which can be viewed here: http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/tracking/mulleagles/

Unfortunately Oran's satellite signal was lost at the beginning of June 2010.
He had just made his longest ever journey to the far North east of the country
and then.... there was nothing but silence from his transmitter.
It seems that the magnificent bird who so delighted me on that freezing day in January has been lost.
I hope this modest story does him, and all those who put so much time and effort into his short life justice.

James MacDonald, 1st July, 2010.





During the freezing spell of mid Dec 2009 until mid January 2010, any long excursions with the camera in search of interesting birds and wildlife were understandably curtailed somewhat.
In fact for most of that memorable period of weather I found myself having to get my photography ‘fix’ at the local harbour in Campbeltown.
Don’t get me wrong though, the harbour birdlife - although modest in comparison to the wilds can be fantastically rewarding.
For instance, the antics of the huge and noisy wintering Eider flock were a constant source of entertainment.
Watching them dive en-mass for crustaceans, then time and again being mercilessly mugged by the Gulls as they re-surfaced was great fun, although perhaps not so much so for the ducks involved.
As well as the massed ranks of Eiders there were numerous other interesting birds to see and photograph.
Obviously the gulls were prominent: Herring, Common and Greater black backed were the only observed species. However, the rarer winter visiting ‘white winged gulls’ I.E the Glaucous and Iceland variety were somewhat conspicuous by their absence.

Black and Common Guillemot, Razorbill, Shag and Cormorant were the other mainstays.
One chilly afternoon I just missed a Great northern diver - that was (rather annoyingly!) well photographed by a good friend minutes before my arrival.

It has to be said though, despite all of this, I still felt the now familiar pull of Kintyre’s wild west coast and moors.
Unfortunately, for around three weeks the ‘usual’ routes into these places were made totally impassable to vehicles by a treacherous mix of ice and snow.
No car, 4x4 or otherwise could penetrate the 'B' road I normally used to get me within 4 miles of my goal.
And even by foot, it would be fair to say that the use of crampons would have been the only really safe method of walking there.
So even though the weather was fantastic for photography - clear blue skies and light winds were the norm - I was stuck in and around Campbeltown.

One evening in early January however I decided enough was enough, the next day come hell or high water I would try to see - and hopefully photograph some large Raptors.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that next day would prove to be not only truly memorable, but ultimately historical as well.

As I said earlier, my usual route to the coast was totally out of the question, the only viable alternative was to come in from the north.
So after a 6am rise, I caught the 7-15 am bus to the village of Machrihanish, and bathed in moonlight made my way up the hill, and onto the moorland farm track to begin my five mile journey south.
In ‘normal’ weather this is a long and strenuous, but ultimately safe walk.
In these arctic conditions however, it was not only twice as difficult, there was a distinct element of danger as well.
When I left the farm track I realised that there had been a light dusting of snow up here the previous night.
The route stretching two miles ahead of me was reminiscent of a mini glacier; at least eight inches of solid ice covered every inch of it, and the meagre sprinkling of new snow on top of this had now made conditions underfoot almost unbelievably slippery.
I gloomily concluded then that a journey I could normally complete in around two hours was ultimately going to take much longer.

At that time of year in Kintyre the sun usually rises at around 8-45 am, and as such the first part of the walk was undertaken in darkness.
However, the Moon low on the western horizon was fat and full, and her cold ethereal light combined nicely with the reflection from the snowy ground and the brightening sky to the south-east to make for surprisingly good visibility.
So it was with some confidence that I started my long cold trek across the moors

My first slip happened almost straight away,
I had been walking comfortably thus far, and had probably been lulled into a false sense of security by the easy going.
So it was with some surprise that I found myself lying on my back looking at the distant stars twinkling serenely above me, and nursing a bruised backside.

Glad that no-one was around to see, I gingerly picked myself up, dusted the snow off my clothes, then checked the camera equipment inside the rucksack for damage.

Everything looked OK, and with a mental reprimand to be more careful in the future I continued.
Five minutes later I was down again, this time I had caught myself with my elbows, and the strain had caused both of my shoulders to become annoyingly painful.
A year previously I had dislocated my left shoulder playing football, so it certainly didn’t take much for me to feel discomfort in that particular joint.
But, after a breather and a few stretches I was fine, and proceeded to walk cautiously up a steep section - at the top of which (as on previous occasions) I usually had a rest stop.

Just as I was somewhat prematurely congratulating myself on safely reaching the top, I fell again.
This time it really hurt.
Because of the steep incline, I took most of my weight - which combined with the rucksack would be around 16 stones, on my right wrist.
I was filled with a sudden nausea from the pain, and at that point I really began to question if this was such a good idea.

As I sat myself down at the aforementioned rest stop, massaging my throbbing wrist and drinking a well earned coffee, I decided that was enough.
If I continued south I seriously risked breaking some bone (or worse my camera!) at the very least, and it would now be far more sensible for me to just turn around and head for home.
So, slightly disappointed, I packed away my flask, lifted my heavy pack onto my tender shoulders and did just that.
When I turned to go, I noticed the sun had just started to peek over the south eastern horizon.
The whole countryside around me was suddenly transformed, and the previously dull black and white moors now glistened magically in the frosty air.
The moon, pale yellow and diminished by the suns arrival, had sank almost all of the way into the blue inkiness of the west; and now lay nestled just above the horizon between Islay and the north of Ireland.
As I looked back to the south, the snowy cone of Cnoc Moy was bathed in vivid pink light, and high above a tiny speck circled the white summit.
Through binoculars I saw it was a Golden eagle, and that was it, there was no going back.
How many more days would there be like this before our more normal winter mix of wind and rain returned?
There was no wind, not a cloud in the sky, and visibility was almost infinite it seemed.
No, I would continue, but very carefully.

I decided I would leave the icy path, and instead cut through the frozen heather and Greater woodrush alongside it.
Although still treacherous, this route would not have the paths' unwelcome guarantee of painful falls every few minutes.
In fact, the stiff vegetation acted as an anchor for my boots as I passed through its dead Winter stems, and I now found myself making far better time.

At around 9-45 I was within 500 yards of my destination.
I stopped and stripped down to my sweat drenched t-shirt and replaced it with a dry one. I then put on my Camouflage gear above my restored winter clothes, took my camera out of its bag, and made my way up to the lip of my usual lookout Corrie.

I use the word ‘Corrie’ for good reason.
Although this particular spot is on the coast, and not the mountains where that word is usually applied; it would be fair to say this precipitous terrain far outstrips some of its inland counterparts for dramatic impact.

The landscape consists of an enormous 'bite' in the hillside, a half circle roughly a mile in diameter. This area is ringed with enormous cliffs - and huge crags - that certainly wouldn’t look out of place in the Cairngorms.
At some points the cliffs reach around 800 feet in height, and it is possible to stand at a height of well over 1100 feet and watch the Atlantic surge almost directly below you.
Behind, the high empty moors stretch back for miles into the wild south Kintyre countryside.
It is truly a wilderness, and far more deserving of the word than many other more mountainous districts.

That cold day the corrie was even more impressive than usual.
Snow and ice covered almost everything above 300 feet.
Rocks glistened with hoar frost and icicles, and the brilliantness of the white winter landscape was almost painful to the eye.
Above this, a sky as blue as any I had ever seen stretched majestically, a huge azure vault, flawless from horizon to horizon.

I paused on the corrie lip, and mentally attempted to pick out a safe path to my usual watching spot in the scree below.

Even in normal conditions this route can be dangerous.
A combination of very steep slopes ending in sheer drops is disquieting to navigate at the best of times, but in the snow and ice some serious care would be needed, I certainly couldn’t afford any more slips here.
So it was with mild trepidation that I dug in my boots, and slowly descended into the icy basin below me.

Thankfully unscathed, I reached my destination at around 10-15.

Now it was just a matter of waiting.
There was somewhat unsurprisingly very little moving.
The cold snap had so far lasted two weeks, and most of the resident wildlife understandably seemed to have left.
However Ravens and Hooded crows were much in evidence, and I took heart from this at least.
As I have remarked before, noisy Corvids are fantastic at alerting you to the presence of large raptors, and even if I missed an eagle flying by, then they certainly wouldn’t.

After a wait of around 15 minutes I heard the now familiar rasping of an annoyed hoodie.
I quickly scanned the skies, and then the rock faces to the south, from where the calls seemed to be coming.

I couldn’t see anything at all at first, then I saw the crow in question dive-bombing some unseen foe on a cliff edge at around 400 feet.
I scanned the cliff again for a couple of minutes, and still could not get glass on whatever was irking the bird; then from almost the top of the cliff a large shape took wing and disappeared almost instantly around the corner to the south.
Damn! Almost certainly the female Golden eagle, and without doubt, she had seen me arrive. How long would I have to wait now until I got a photographic opportunity?
Well, not long as it turned out, because seconds later the bird returned from the south and proceeded to fly straight in my direction.

My God she was big, and why was she flapping so much?
‘Goldies’ in my experience flap very little, preferring to glide and soar with just the occasional hardly noticeable adjustment to the wing position.
But today ‘she’ was really powering those wings up and down; maybe the bird had just fed - and as such was much heavier than usual. Also the air temperature was miles below freezing, so there weren’t exactly any thermals to provide lift, but no, something was wrong, and as the bird got closer I realised with disbelief what it was.

This ‘Golden eagle’ was in fact a White tailed Eagle, a huge juvenile in fact, and certainly the biggest bird I had ever seen.
I felt as though in a dream as the bird got closer, the size and breadth of his wings were just unbelievable, and as I watched him circumnavigate the corrie normally the sole property of my local Golden eagle pair, the poignancy of the moment was not lost on me.

Well over 100 years ago this majestic bird was entirely wiped out in Great Britain by mans' diabolical, and merciless persecution.
Then in the 1970s after previously failed attempts, the bird was re-introduced with birds taken from Norway, on the isle of Rhum in the Hebrides.
They then spread to Mull, and ultimately to other islands on the North western seaboard of Scotland, and today have a small but healthy breeding population once again.
In fact this coast was traditionally a White tailed eagle territory until their untimely extinction. Just a few hundred yards from where I now watched this magnificent animal, two eyries still remained from that era, obviously built up and renewed by Golden eagles in recent times, but still originally White tailed Eagles nests.
Still scarcely able to believe my eyes I watched the huge dark form flying nonchalantly around the cliffs. Then, slightly getting over my shock - I began to wonder where he had came from.
Another re-introduction programme had been going on in Ireland - which as the eagle flies was very close to here. Even Mull wasn’t that far away, in fact on very clear days the huge massif of its highest peak Ben More was clearly visible from the corrie lip above...questions questions.
I decided to forget the queries, there was no-one here to answer them anyway, and just see if I couldn’t manage to get a few half decent images of the bird in front of me, after all this would almost certainly be the only photographic record ever of this species taken in Kintyre*.
As I snapped away I became aware of a metallic glint coming from the birds back.
I knew then that the eagle was satellite tagged, I had seen a similar tag on the back of a Golden eagle near Campbeltown in the Summer so I was very familiar with how they looked.
Basically the small solar powered tag is attached painlessly whilst the bird is still in the nest. The subsequent data received from the tag then gives the ‘trackers’ accurate information on the birds whereabouts after it has left the Natal area.
It now looked likely that this bird was from Mull.
I knew that two young birds there had been fitted with transmitters that summer, and I had been closely following their progress on the RSPB website, and previously on the SPRINGWATCH programme on BBC2. One of the birds ‘Oran’ had been just north of Kintyre recently, could this be him? Well, I would have to wait until I got home to find out for sure.

Meanwhile, ‘Oran’ was still flapping and gliding to and fro, pursued comically by a string of unwanted corvine companions. He seemed to take little or no notice of these minute irritants, and forgetting my camera I settled back to watch their progress.
I was reminded time and again of the sheer size of the bird.
I was used to watching Golden eagles in the same area, and making a comparison wasn’t too difficult.
A White tailed Eagle can have a wingspan of around eight feet, and sometimes more, but it is the breadth of the wing that really catches the eye. The birds body - the head and the tail, are dwarfed by the massive pinions. This gives the WTE its deserved nickname of the ‘Flying barn door’.
Golden Eagles are smaller, and narrower winged,
They average between a 6 and 7 feet wingspan, and compared to the white tailed Eagles have a more masterful, buoyant flight.
Thinking of this, it then occurred to me - where were the Goldies? How would they perceive this strange alien from the past in their territory?
Although smaller a Golden eagle can and will drive a WTE off a carcass, and I was sure if they were aware of this bird, they wouldn’t hesitate to try and get rid of him.
But no, apart from the crows, all was quiet, and after another 5 minutes of rather laboured circling, he took it upon himself to disappear to the south, and that was the last I saw of him.

Elated, I reviewed my images, some were OK, but most were of poor quality.
A combination of excitement, and too slow a shutter speed had resulted in quite a few duds, but I had proof of a WTE (albeit probably a transient one) in Kintyre, happy days!
By now the temperature had risen slightly, and I quite comfortably had my lunch in the weak winter sunshine.

After I had finished my modest meal, I scanned the cliffs to the south, hoping the Golden eagle pair would come in and give me a close view to cap off an already unbelievable day.
They didn’t, but a female Hen harrier appeared briefly below me, and then spent around 5 minutes scanning the sparse vegetation beneath her for voles.
I watched her happily as she skimmed along a few feet off the ground, once or twice she suddenly dropped like a stone - but the rapid resumption of her hunt told me she had been unsuccessful in her attempts at food.
They really are the most gorgeous of raptors, the cryptic tawny plumage and flashing white rump of the female is only eclipsed for beauty in my mind by the male of the same species.
His black tipped light grey wings , combined with the white under-parts, and his incredible yellow eyes, make him in my opinion the most attractive bird in the British Isles.
Soon she was gone, and I now had around an hour left before I would have to undertake the long journey home.

I spotted the Golden eagle pair soon after.
They were around a mile away to the south, and seemed to be displaying to each other in the winter sunshine.

The male bird (presumably) would circle upwards until he was at a great height, then plummet earthwards towards the waiting female soaring below.
Golden eagles are early nesters, and displays like this can happen any time on fine days from mid winter onwards, it was even possible that some very early nest building/renovation had already taken place.
Unfortunately the birds were too far away for photography, but I was content to watch their antics through binoculars, until once more they disappeared from view.

I then looked around to the north and towards the high rocky knoll in front of me on the corrie lip.
The Gaelic for this little summit is Binnean Fhitich - or the Ravens peak. I knew however that it would have been far more accurately named Creag na h-Iolaire - or the Eagles rock or crag, as this high perch is a favourite spot for the local Goldies to sit and watch the world go by.
The view from here is quite incredible, north and south most of the coast is visible, and to the west: Ulster, Donegal, Islay and Jura are easily seen, no wonder it is favoured by the Eagles.
Usually on my way home I will bypass the spot to see if there are any pellets or feathers left behind by the birds regular visits.
On one occasion I found a pellet roughly six inches long, and with a diameter of around 3 inches, quite a mouthful!
I had dissected the casting, and found it to contain almost exclusively sheep’s wool, but it somewhat surprisingly also had the small fragile bones of a vole or mouse hidden deep inside as well.
Anyway, getting back to Binnen Fhitich, I remembered a day in late October of 2009 when it had been a hive of activity.
All afternoon long there had been Eagles on and around it.
Both adults and that years youngster had been back and forth all day, seemingly unconcerned by my presence a few hundred yards below.
The youngster seemed to be honing her hunting skills as the parents looked on. Firstly flying in at great speed from the north, then after arrowing down towards the knoll with her talons outstretched, she would grasp the rock for a few seconds, take off again, and then repeat the whole sequence.
She also flew directly behind her parents as if in pursuit, making diving lunges at them as she caught them up.
Fantastically entertaining to watch, and something I will never forget.

Today, and after all the excitement of earlier, Binnean fhitich was deserted and had a mournful lonely air about it.
I wondered where the youngster was now.
In 2008 the Juvenile of that year had hung around the area until at least February 2009, but it seemed that this years young Golden eagle had already left. I hadn’t seen her since November, and I sincerely hoped she would survive the abnormally cold weather wherever she was.

Musing on all of this and mentally preparing myself to leave, I glimpsed a small black speck high in the southern sky.
I quickly got binoculars on it, and surmised that it was the male golden eagle - and he was heading very quickly in my direction.
I transferred from binos to Camera in a flash, and just managed to focus on him as he approached.
He flew at incredible speed along the steep hillside above, his shadow a straight black bar below him, undulating with the bumps and folds of the landscape; then, seemingly in no time at all, he was passing directly above my position and heading straight towards Binnean Fhitich.
Surely he wasn’t going to land there? It was only 100 yards away and he must have seen me as he passed……
If he did, in this light, and at this distance, it would be some photograph!
He didn’t.
He flew straight past it, and onwards to the north until he was out of sight.

With a rueful smile I reviewed my images, a couple weren’t too bad at all, but I soon realised the futility of my hopes of a landing.
In every one of the images he was looking straight at me.
He knew (as is usually the case) that I was there in the corrie below him, and doubtless he had spotted me long before I had seen him.
Obviously this was just a ‘strafing run’ by to have a quick look at the intruder.
I have said elsewhere that Golden eagles can be inquisitive birds, and he had just proved it again.

After 5 minutes of fruitlessly waiting to see if the female would follow her mate, I decided that would do for the day.
I had a difficult journey ahead, and it was now late in the afternoon and time to leave.
As I climbed carefully over the corrie lip I turned back to the south,
A few clouds had drifted in front of the lowering sun. Beautiful shafts of sunlight escaped these and illuminated the Irish sea below. After I had taken a few pictures of this phenomenon ** I turned my back on the corrie for the last time and headed home.

The walk back was difficult, I had decided to take a detour and avoid the treacherous ice of the moors by walking back via the coast.
This was handy as it enabled me to retrieve a lens-cap left previously by me in the Inneans bay - a beautiful Atlantic beach and glen spectacularly carved out of the steep surrounding hillside, but not quite so handy, as this was a much longer and steeper route than the one I had taken that morning.
I spent a pleasant half an hour at the Inneans - photographing crashing waves and spray in nice soft light, then I really had to motor the last three miles around the coast to get back to Machrihanish before dark.
As I went further north, I decided to cut back over the hill, this meant I would miss having to cross a particularly troublesome burn in the poor light.
This wide and fast moving watercourse is bad enough in the summer, but now in these temperatures its rocky difficulties would be further compounded by ice, and it certainly wouldn’t be a good idea to attempt a fording.
So I wearily climbed the 500 or so feet over the hill and once again joined the icy moorland track for the last half a mile.

It seemed somewhat stickier than it had in the morning, and I was going along quite nicely until.....bang!
Down I was again.... on my back again... looking up at the stars again.....
And quite happy that the only witnesses to this far from graceful episode were a couple of bored looking Highland cattle.
A sense of Déjà vu crept over me as I once again checked my expensive camera equipment, thankfully all was well and I reached the village intact around 45 minutes later.

When I got home that evening, I quickly emailed a few images of the White tailed eagle to some people who would probably know the bird.
I didn’t have to wait long for the replies to come in.
This was indeed Oran from Mull, his tracking information had shown he had spent a few days north of Campbeltown, before coming south to the corrie, then afterwards heading to Ulster for a brief period, before returning to Islay, where he had been before his Kintyre visit, quite a traveller this boy!

I am hopeful he liked what he saw at the Corrie, and maybe sometime in the future I will see Oran there again, perhaps this time with a mate, I do hope so.
They belong here after all.
Hopefully it is now just a matter of time until the huge majestic Sea Eagle once again graces the wild cliffs and rocky shores of South West Kintyre on a regular basis.


James MacDonald, January 18th, 2010


* In late 2007 I photographed a distant bird near the corrie in terrible light. I actually dismissed the image as a very poor shot of a Golden eagle, and to be honest I didn't give it too much more thought.
Then a few days later whilst in the same area - I heard what I was sure was an adult White tailed eagle calling, and for some reason I thought of that image.
So when I got home that evening, I dug out the pic and attempted to enhance it slightly.
It revealed that the ‘Goldie’ was probably a WTE, the bill was a very light yellow, and there even appeared to be white coloured tag on the right wing.
Unfortunately although I was sure of the I.D, the image was just too poor to be certain, so I had to pretty much forget about it.
There have been non photographic records however.
Two months before that image, a canoeist claimed to have seen a wing tagged WTE at the Mull of Kintyre around 5 miles to the south of where I saw Oran, then again the next day further around the coast towards Campbeltown.

I also took an image last Autumn which can be viewed in the ‘birds of prey’ section of this website, this bird may possibly be a young WTE, although it’s a reasonably clear image, it still isn’t possible to tell for sure whether the bird involved is a WTE, or a very large, not to mention dark Golden eagle, you can make up your own mind on that one……


** One of these images can be seen in the ‘Landscapes’ section of this website.

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