Jumping deer, spitting images

April 4, 2024, 11:33 am , by Richard Lutz

by Richard Lutz

About a month ago, I wrote that winter had held its breath too long. Spring was ready to bloom.

But along came a sharp late winter snap. And colour either drained or disappeared. It was cold and wet.

With this in mind, I take a familiar route through Ayrshire. It’s a funny old series of paths that, this time of year, seems to simply hook up patches of mud.

It’s a quiet day with no seawind roaring up from the south west. No one is around. A roe deer emerges from a wood. I can’t get my phone out fast enough for a photo; but here’s one …’taken earlier’, as they say in the trade.

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Roe, whether a hind, doe or kid, have that white rump that stands out. The deer doesn’t see or hear me. It prances across a tilted pasture. Suddenly it speeds up. Maybe my scent worried it. It gathers speed, as if downshifting, and then silently jumps a fence into deep woods. And it’s gone.

I dip into an old carriageway. It used to be the main entrance to Culzean Castle which overlooks the sea. The long straight route is never used, not maintained, not part of the tourist map that thousands use to enjoy the grounds of this 18c Adams masterpiece.

The route has lingering ghosts. There’s a noise, a wisp of sound. I’m always looking over my shoulder. But no one is behind as I pass tangled undergrowth, overgrown copses of oak and fir and veer around trees stumps and deep ruts of mud. The empty carriageway leads to an enclosed deer park so, who knows, maybe the roe was visiting friends. Among the fenced-in deer are llamas…

They can stand on their hind legs to graze on low hanging foliage. Don’t get too near the fences though. Llamas seem to work on a short fuse and have a bad habit of spitting.

After that roe deer, after that abandoned old carriageway, after the short-tempered llama, I follow a path that overlooks the steel grey waters of the Firth of Clyde. Behind are the high ridges of the Isle of Arran.

I look down. Tucked into a small sunny corner is a patch of Primula vulgaris. And it’s…ahem… anything but vulgar:

It’s, of course, primrose which is a welcome clue to the coming spring. And so it should. Its name, from a rickety form of Latin, simply means First Rose. Their seed is spread by hungry greenfinches. I see no other primroses for the rest of the day. But they will eventually spread along verges and in woodlands. Once the weather warms. Once spring arrives. Once winter runs out of cold breath.

Pictures: Walter Baxter, Anne Burgess, Billy McCrorie, Rob Farrow