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Hoots & Havers - June 07

There are only 400 Scottish wildcats left in the world, trumpeted an organ. How does it know? Who carried out the census of those resident in Glen Lyon and Glen Lochay, for instance, where I have seen a handful over the years but never a guy counting them. 

And what’s the definition of a wildcat? Another organ informed me that they are being forced into decline through hybridization and as many as 80% are crossed with the domestic cat. This is a remarkable figure, but I would doubt the beasts were being forced into it.

Presumably mankind has kept moggies for several thousand years in this country and one wonders what was wrong with the sexuality of the ancestors of the purebred 20% if they never met and had it off with some randy farm puss. 

Wildcats have three subspecies – European, African and Asian. And these subspecies further breakdown into 16 sub subspecies. There is some doubt about whether the sub subspecisim of our local puss  - Felis sylvestris grampia - is not, in fact, due to crossbreeding. But its future is surely assured.

The beast already has a website and a charity to itself. Soon it will have its own SNH officer and a secretary.

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The editor of Comment went off on his hols for a week and recruited me to the team which tries to keep the discussion forum of the web version free from spam & porn.  Every morning, and on odd occasions during the day/evening, I’d go to the site and try to control my blushes when I clicked on some message and found myself looking at something very rude indeed or a message promising me the sight of a Hollywood star doing something even ruder.

Some of the posts gave everything up front, and seemed to require no hitting of links to receive the full flavour of what was on offer. In spite of my antivirus program spluttering its disapproval of my rash conduct, I did hit on one of the less forthcoming links - just for research, of course. The screen showed something naughty and then went into a frenzy

It informed me that I’d won a competition that would give me a billion trillion dollars, eternal life, and the services of 72 black-eyed virgins without going through the inconvenience of turning Muslim and blowing myself up.

I’m still waiting.

* * * * *

I’ve been up the track to Garth Castle a couple of times recently. The first time it was part of a Sunday potter and I took a look at a set of ruins off on the left of the track a couple of hundred yards short of the castle. I wasn’t much the wiser and, back home, remembered to check the database of the RCAHMS – the Ancient Monument people – but they weren’t listed. 

The next time was with a cousin, a soldier, who was in Aberfeldy for a recent Black Watch get-together and wanted a look at the castle. I took a camera this time and pulled him into the undergrowth to examine the ruins.

We explored a bit and photographed, but mossy hummocks amid trees and brambles don’t make wonderful pictures. There’s what looks like quite a well-preserved limekiln and the walls of a few other buildings, most well hodden doon by the centuries and protected by nettles. I checked with David Strachan, the County Archaeologist, but he had no record of these remains either, so I burrowed into my computer and the records of the Garth estate and came to the conclusion that they’re the remains of Ringam aka Rangom, one of the little farm towns that dotted that hillside.

The others seem to have survived as proper farms, or at least place names - Litigan, the Blairishes, Balchroich etc. - but Rangom or Ringam hasn’t. It had only six acres of ploughable land and thirteen acres of pasture, so it’s not surprising that it was stripped of its land and left to moulder

And just while writing this article, I had another look in the computer and now find out that we had been exploring hallowed ground. From 1784 until his death in 1799, the tenant of Ringam was James Irvine. He was my military cousin’s gt-gt-gt-gt-grandfather, and my own. Spooky, hey?

I began to write about the Castle because of its owls. The walls of the building are very, very thick. Its small windows burrow through the stone and, between the glass and the outside, there’s several feet of ledge and these ledges make perfect nest holes – perfect so long as their users don’t mind folk peering at them from behind.

In one of the highest windows, a tawny owl has reared its young. The raw truth about such creatures is that they’re a bit gross, both in looks and behaviour. There were three the first time I saw them with their adult plumage coming through the fluff, and they turned round to hiss and make faces at us while we passed disparaging comments about the quality of their parents’ housekeeping.

They all seemed perfectly healthy although one was a little smaller than the others. But the season seemed beneficent and a happy outcome could be expected

The next time up and there were only two left. I doubt it fell out; its siblings will have eaten it. They’re the descendants of dinosaurs, cold-hearted survivors, and woe betides us if we forget it.

* * * * *

Whilst on the subject of things natural, that tree lying beneath the Upper Falls of Moness has slithered back even further in time.

John Fleming and his wife are dedicated pounders round the Birks. His father would have been 95 this year. John recalls him saying in the mid 1970s that the tree had been there all his days and his Birking days likely started about 1920. So, the tree will hit its centenary sometime soon. 

There’s even someone who might take a tree ring-dating sample, so watch this space.