​Despite its appearance, cottongrass, also known as bog cotton or ghost grass is neither cotton or grass. It is in fact a sedge, which is a group of plants that are closely related to grasses. Three species of cottongrass are likely to be found in Scotland: Hare’s-tail Cottongrass, Common Cottongrass and Broad-leaved Cottongrass. All three love damp, acidic environments so are well at home in the peat filled salt marsh that is at Ardmolich.
 
Hare’s-tail cottongrass has just one ‘cotton’ head at the tip of its stem in the form of a tidy, almost spherical tuft, reminiscent of the tail of a rabbit or hare, hence the name. On the other hand, broad-leaved cottongrass and common cottongrass both have several and more unkempt ‘cotton’ heads drooping from their stems that look a bit like cotton wool that has been pulled apart. Having looked at the plants I was photographing, I decided that they were common cottongrass because of the narrow leaves and stems that they had.
 
I wandered around the salt marsh, carefully making my way around innumerable water pools and across countless tussocks until I found myself in the middle of a sea of white, fluffy seed heads gently swaying in the slight morning breeze. I knelt down to take a closer look at the tufts of ‘cotton’ and found myself with an eye level view across the top of them to the hills at the other end of Loch Moidart. It was from there that I took my first photograph, using a long focal length to compress and emphasise the sea of white that floated before me.

​With the wide perspective shot taken, I focused my time on taking a series of shots that captured the cotton grass in more detail, eventually homing in on a single plant that I was able to isolate from all the others around it by using careful composition and a wide aperture. Coming to the end of doing this, I began to wonder if this fluffy, delicate plant had been used for anything in the past and if it had any folklore associated with it.
 
Unsurprisingly, one of the primary historic uses of cottongrass was as a stuffing material, particularly by rural communities where resources were limited, and every available material was put to good use. I found references to its downy fibres being used as an insulating stuffing for pillows, mattresses, for lining shoes and even as an absorbent pad for infants to use at night instead of a nappy.
 
When it comes to Scottish folklore, one common theme appears to be the association of cottongrass with the faeries. A number of tales describe cottongrass as one of their favourite plants because they used the soft, fluffy tufts to make their beds, while other tales have described patches of cotton grass swaying gently in the wind as the sight of faeries dancing.
 
However, it is in Shetland where the clearest association of cottongrass and mystical beings exists. It is known locally as Lucka Minnie’s Oo, or wool. A witch from Shetland folklore, Lucka Minnie, was said to roam the hills in summer to collect this wool, which she’d process on a card obtained from the faeries and then use it to knit her clothes.
 
When I tried to find out a bit more about her, I came across two conflicting stories. One described her as a fearful ‘trow’ or troll who met her end while chasing after a young boy who she’d intended to eat for her dinner. The other painted her as a rather benevolent character who would guide lost travellers through treacherous boglands by revealing paths marked by distinctive clumps of cottongrass. I guess that if one were to be true, I hope it would be the latter, which I think would be a fitting tale to link with the delicately beautiful tufts that are the seed heads of the cottongrass.

While foxgloves, scientifically known as Digitalis purpurea, are undoubtedly striking plants, they are renowned for their potent medicinal properties and have played a key role in treating heart conditions. In the late 18th century, the English physician William Withering discovered that digitalis, an extract from the foxglove, contained digitoxin and digoxin. These two compounds help strengthen and regulate the force of the heart contractions and have been used to treat irregular heartbeats and manage the symptoms of heart failure.
 
In the past, digitalis has had other medicinal uses and was listed in Nicholas Culpeper’s 1652 herbal medicine guide, The English Physician, as a treatment for “the falling sickness”, or epilepsy. One famous person who may have been treated with digitalis for epileptic seizures was Vincent Van Gogh. Many art historians believe that the yellow haze that this would cause in the sight of patients receiving this type of treatment may be responsible for his “yellow period”. This was a time when yellow dominated many of his paintings, and particularly The Starry Night, a painting in which a yellow corona surrounded the moon and each star in it.

​Another myth tells of the foxglove’s bell-shaped flowers being used as little hats or homes by faeries, with children often warned against picking them to avoid offending the fairies who might live inside them and to not bring misfortune upon themselves.
 
Foxgloves were also thought to have protective properties and hanging a sprig of foxglove outside a house was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect the inhabitants from harm. While in some areas, foxgloves were planted around homes and barns to safeguard against witchcraft and to ensure the health and safety of livestock.
 
Alternative folklore suggest that the name “foxglove” comes from the idea that the flowers are the right size and shape for foxes to wear on their paws. According to this legend, foxes, known for their slyness and stealth, would put the flowers over their paws to muffle their footsteps as they hunted or avoided predators. This idea not only highlighted the fox’s cunning nature but also lent an almost magical quality to the foxglove plant, suggesting that it provided some supernatural aid to these clever animals.

​In my mind, the cuckoo is one of the most iconic migratory birds to visit us each year. Its distinctive "cuck-oo" or "coo-coo" call resonates through misty mornings and still evenings, carrying promises of warmer days and the vibrant rebirth of flora and fauna. In addition to this, the bird itself is intertwined with various superstitions and legends.
 
One prevalent belief is that the timing of the cuckoo's arrival can predict the weather for the upcoming season. If the cuckoo is heard early in the spring, it was said to foretell a warm and prosperous summer ahead. Conversely, a late arrival was thought to signal a cold and harsh season, causing anxiety among farmers and villagers who relied on favourable weather for their livelihoods.
 
The cuckoo's association with prophecy extends beyond meteorological predictions and into matters of love and luck. In some Scottish communities, it was believed that hearing the first call of the cuckoo could bring fortune to couples seeking to conceive a child. Newlyweds would eagerly await the arrival of the cuckoo, hoping that its call would bless their union with fertility and abundance.
 
However, not all superstitions surrounding the cuckoo were benign. In certain folklore traditions, the cuckoo was viewed with suspicion and even fear, often being portrayed as a symbol of deceit and trickery. One particularly ominous belief is the notion of the "cuckoo's curse," which suggests that hearing the bird's call on certain days, especially Sundays or while in bed, could bring misfortune or even death to the listener or their family.
 
The mysterious nature of the cuckoo is further accentuated by its peculiar habits, including its brood parasitism behaviour. Unlike most birds, which build nests and care for their young, the cuckoo lays its eggs in the nests of other bird species, relying on them to raise its offspring. This behaviour has led to the cuckoo being associated with themes of deception and betrayal in folklore, because it exploits the labour and resources of unwitting foster parents.
 
Beyond its cultural significance, the cuckoo's presence also serves as a barometer of ecological health, reflecting the condition of its breeding habitat and the availability of its preferred food sources. Concerns about habitat loss, climate change, and the decline of insect populations have led to conservation efforts aimed at preserving and restoring the cuckoo's habitat. They include protecting vital breeding grounds, restoring degraded ecosystems, and raising awareness about the importance of migratory birds.
 
Despite these efforts, the cuckoo faces an uncertain future in Scotland. Like many migratory birds, it must navigate a perilous journey here which is fraught with challenges, while avoiding predation and dealing with climate-induced disruptions in food availability. In addition, its dependence on other species, such as the reed warbler and meadow pipit, for egg incubation and chick rearing further complicates its conservation.
 
Yet, amidst these challenges, there is cause for hope. The resilience of the cuckoo, coupled with the dedication of conservationists and the support of local communities, offers a glimmer of optimism for its continued survival. By fostering greater awareness, understanding, and appreciation for this charismatic bird the conservationists hope that they can ensure that future generations will be able to delight in the timeless spectacle of the cuckoo's arrival in a Scottish spring. I, for one, hope that they succeed.

​Well, it seems that these little plants that spend most of the year as bulbs underground in our woodlands and hillsides, are what botanists call ‘wood hyacinths’ or “Hyacinthoides con-scripta” and have been given the common name of “English Bluebell” because their flowers are indeed blue, and they are indeed shaped like a bell.

​What about the Scottish Bluebell though? Well, do you remember Scottish Bluebell Matches and the delicate blue and bell-shaped flowers on the matchbox? These are completely different from the “blue bells” on the plants in our woodlands. They are in fact “Campanula rotundifolia”, a creeping, rooted perennial that flowers from July to September and more commonly known as the Harebell. It favours dry, grassy places, so you will find it in the dry land around our sandy beaches as opposed to in our damp, shady woodlands.
​
Many English Bluebell tales involve dark fairy magic with bluebell woods being portrayed as scary, forbidding places that should be avoided. For example, if you do enter a bluebell wood, you should never pick or step on a bluebell for fear of breaking a spell that a faerie has hung on one of the flowers. If you do break a faerie spell, they will get extremely upset, seek you out and enchant you in such a way that you would be drawn further into the woods to wander lost for evermore.

​Folklore says that you also need to be careful with the Scottish Bluebell because its common name is rooted in magic. Some say that the name “Harebell” was given to the flower because witches would turn themselves into hares and hide among them. It may also be the reason why the names Witch's Thimbles and Witch Bells were used for the flowers.

​So, there you have it. Hyacinths or Harebells? English Bluebells and Scottish Bluebells? Different plants linked by a common name and a whole lot of myth and legend, both of which you should not damage for fear of being visited by angry faeries, witches or indeed, the Aul’ Man himself.

​The image above was captured from the upper slopes of Meall Mor, a small peak that sits on the western flank of Ben Resipole. I have been up there many times because it is only a short distance from my house and the modest climb is rewarded with stunning views westwards over Loch Sunart to the Isle of Carna and the hills of Morvern beyond.
 
While taking this photograph, I saw something that I hadn’t noticed before. A small promontory sitting in front of the silhouette of the Isle of Carna, which only caught my eye because it was lit up by rays of light that had broken through the clouds.
 
Curious as to what it was, I did a bit of research when I returned home to find out that this knoll was both the site of a small Iron Age fort called Dùn Ghallain (Fort of the Storm) and the setting of ‘The Swan of Salen’, a mythical tale that seeks to explain why no swans are found on Loch Sunart.
 
It tells of a Chieftain who fell in love with a maiden of low social status. The Chieftain’s mother disapproved of the match and turned the maiden into a swan. The Chieftain, not knowing this, killed the swan while out hunting and was heartbroken to see the swan’s body take the form of his love as it died. Inconsolable, he fell on his own sword, and the bodies of the two are said to lie beneath Dùn Ghallain to this day. It is said that this is why there are no swans on Loch Sunart, making it the perfect example of a tale to explain the unexplainable.
 
If you travel a few miles east from there, you can find a location whose name is linked to a legend that warns you away from danger. It is Lochan nan Dunaich, the ‘Little Loch of Sadness’, where young children were supposedly lured into its waters by a Kelpie and never seen again. 

​Kelpies are said to be water spirits that inhabit many of the rivers and lochs of Scotland. Although usually appearing in the form of a horse, they are capable of shape-shifting and can take human-form. When in horse form a kelpie will often stand near the edge of a river or loch waiting for its prey, which will often be young children. Kelpies have magically adhesive bodies, meaning that should a child choose to clap the supposed horse, they will become attached, allowing the Kelpie to drag its victim into the water and drown them.
 
It is also said that they can stretch the length of their backs to carry several children to their death at once. One tale involves a group of children, where all but one climbed onto the kelpie’s back while the last child stayed on the shore. This child petted the kelpie’s neck only to have their hand become attached to it. They freed themselves by cutting off the hand only to then watch their friends, who were stuck to the kelpie’s back, being dragged down into the depths of the water where they were devoured, and their entrails thrown to the water’s edge.
 
When you look at Lochan nan Dunaich, a deep and dark pool of water with fallen trees around its boggy edges, you can well understand the need to warn children away from straying too close to it and with such gruesome tales about Kelpies, you can well understand how the local legend would have been to this effect. So, if you find yourself there, tread carefully, very carefully indeed.

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, in his book “The Peat Fire Flame” describes how it was related in the Islands that, when Christ was being pursued from one Hebridean Isle to another, he was hidden at low tide by two oystercatchers, who covered Him with seaweed, and kept watch over Him until His enemies had passed. And that it is supposed that for this act of grace, the oystercatcher was chosen to be the gille or manservant of Saint Bridget, Christ's foster-mother. Hence the origin of gille-hridean, the oystercatcher's Gaelic name.
 
An alternative story is that Saint Bride (Bridget) was running away from a band of evil men who were trying to kill her and, after being chased to a beach where there was no place to hide, she prayed to God to thank him for her life and lay on the sand to accept her death. However, before the men reached the beach, oystercatchers, who were patrolling the shoreline, saw her, recognised that she was in danger and covered her with seaweed, hiding her and saving her life. She blessed the species and since that day the oystercatcher has been the brìdean (Brìd-eun ‘Bride’s bird) or gille-brìde ‘servant of Bride’.
 
These two very similar stories may well be pure myth, but there is much written about the bird in the folklore of the West Highlands and Islands. Indeed, they say in the Hebrides that the oystercatcher was originally completely black, and that, in recognition of the two oystercatchers saving Christ from His enemies, it was awarded white plumage on its breast causing it to look like a white cross when it is seen flying towards you.
 
However, the oystercatcher’s most distinguishing feature must be its call and, more often than not, you will hear its shrill, insistent peep, peep, peep long before catch sight of any birds. In Gaelic the cry of the oystercatcher is " Bi glic, hi glic ; bi glic, bi glic! ", meaning ' be wise,' ' be prudent,' ' take care.' One story has it that Saint Bride followed this call across the sea from Ireland in her coracle to finally be guided to the shores of South Uist with an oystercatcher on each wrist. She is also said to have been able to call them to her hand and, in rough weather, send them out to sailors to guide them to safety. This may be why the cry of an oystercatcher was commonly regarded by West Highland mariners and fishermen as a warning of an approaching storm. 

​After hearing their call, you may well spot oystercatchers swooping low over the sea, making a dazzling flight pattern, before eventually landing on exposed sand and mud flats, where they feed on shore-dwelling bivalves such as mussels and limpets, along with other invertebrates like ragworms. I just love watching these gregarious and noisy birds as they quickly run up and down the tideline in an almost comical fashion. To watch this flurry of activity and boundless energy helps you understand why one of the collective nouns for the oystercatcher is a “stew”. The two others I’m aware of are “Rockefeller” and “parcel”, but they just don’t seem to fit the bill as well.

​This year, the summer solstice occurs on 21 June at 10:13 am. It is the exact moment when the North Pole is at its maximum tilt towards the Sun, when the Sun reaches its highest position in the sky and when the Sun rises at its closest to north-east and sets at its closest to north-west.
 
Although the summer solstice is a precise moment in time, many people refer to it as the “Longest Day” because it is the day when the number of hours of daylight are at their maximum and the number of hours of night are at their minimum. For instance, on 21 June this year, our sunrise here on the Peninsula will be at 4:27:36 am and our sunset will be at 10:22:23 pm, giving us 17 hours, 54 minutes and 47 seconds of daylight.
 
While the summer solstice marks the astronomical start of our summer, it has traditionally been celebrated in Scotland as midsummer, the halfway point in the growing season and a time when people hoped for bountiful harvests. The celebrations began as a Celtic fire festival when bonfires would be used to bless crops and beasts. Animals would be walked around the fire in a sun-wise (clockwise) direction and torches would be lit from the main fire to then be carried around homes and fields, also in a sun-wise direction, to bless families and the crops.
 
Also, people used to gather herbs at this time, and either scatter them into the fire to complete the ritual, wear them along with flowers to ward off evil spirits, or place them under their pillows as good luck charms to manifest good dreams. Birch branches were sometimes hung above doors for protection. This was also believed to be the best time to collect honey from beehives, which is why the first full moon in June was called the “honey moon”. Unsurprisingly, this became the traditional month for weddings.
 
With the coming of Christianity, many pagan midsummer celebrations were moved to the feast of St John the Baptist on 24 June, with bonfires remaining central to them. People would light the bonfires on midsummer eve and then stay up until midnight to welcome in midsummer day. They continued to gather herbs and flowers to protect themselves from evil spirits and one of the most powerful plants was ‘chase-devil’, which is now called St John’s Wort. It was used in potions and woven into garlands because people believed that this would provide them with protection.
 
Finally, herbalists continue to use St John’s Wort in medicines to this day. It contains many chemicals that act on messengers in the brain that regulate mood and there is some strong scientific evidence that it is effective for mild to moderate depression.

​In Celtic folklore, bluebells have a strong association with spirits and faeries. They are often called faerie flowers and their small bell-shaped flowers are believed summon the faeries when rung.  This is not necessarily a good thing because faeries are believed to hang their spells on the bluebells to dry and disturbing them may unleash wild magic upon you, leaving you dazed by enchantment and unable to find your way out of the woods. It can be even more serious for children who pick bluebells because it is believed that they could be snatched away by the faerie folk, never to be seen again.
 
So, if you do visit a bluebell wood, just remember to stay on the path and to not pick or disturb any of the flowers. Besides risking the wrath of the faeries, another good reason to avoid disturbing them is that they are poisonous, and this might be the reason why there are so many old tales and legends warning people away from them.
 
However, these beautiful little flowers have also been valued for their useful properties and have been used over the centuries by herbalists to prevent nightmares and to treat leprosy, spider bites and tuberculosis. They contain at least 15 biologically active compounds that provide them with protection against insect and animal pests and in recent years, some of these compounds have been investigated as possible treatments for HIV infection and cancer.
 
Bluebells have practical uses as well. They produce an exceptionally sticky sap which was used by our Bronze Age ancestors to make a glue that they use for attaching flights of feathers to their arrows. This glue has also been used for several centuries by bookbinders to make and repair books, while in Tudor times, starch was extracted from crushed bluebell roots and used to stiffen the ruff collars that were very much the fashion back then.
 
Finally, some bluebell folklore gives a positive impression of this beautiful little flower. For example, some believe that by wearing a wreath made of the flowers, the wearer can be compelled to speak only truth while others believe that if you can turn one of the flowers inside out without tearing it, you will eventually win the one you love.

What’s in a Name?

​If you take a walk through Ariundle Oakwood, you’ll see a woodland floor covered with hundreds of moss-covered boulders which, with a little bit of imagination, could be mistaken for mounds that are home to the mythological sídhe, a supernatural race comparable to the faeries or elves. Indeed, the nearby village of Strontian got its name because of the faeries. In Scottish Gaelic, it is called Sròn an t-Sìthein, which translates as the ‘nose of the fairy hill’ and means a knoll or low round hill inhabited by the sídhe. ​