Seals, Swans & Sun: A Walk At Findhorn

Too long has passed since I last visited Findhorn on the Moray coast. Not since August, I think. That was remedied on the last day of March when it looked as though summer was back again, with sunshine, a blue sky and a calm sea. Only an occasional cold wind was a reminder of the time of year.

The tide was out, leaving vast expanses of rippled sand. We zigzagged along the beach, seeking out the firmer ground for walking. Flocks of gulls floated offshore and rested on sandbanks, only rising when a dog came too close. Oystercatchers flashed black and white along the sea's edge, almost brushing the gentle waves with their wings.

Across the mouth of the River Findhorn a dark band lay along the water's edge. Raising my binoculars I saw it was made up of seals packed closely together. Wandering to the river's edge I could see there were a hundred or more lying on the sand. A few were in the water, calling softly.

A dozen swans floated past, serene and graceful. In the distance were oil rigs and the snow-splashed slopes of Ben Wyvis. Findhorn Bay was more sand than water. Few boats had yet been launched and it seemed strangely empty. We sat outside at The Captain's Table with coffee and tea and watched the water and the sand and the gulls. It felt like the first day of summer.

An Afternoon at Findhorn

A kayaker heads out to sea

Sometimes the sea rather than the mountains calls. The wide open space of a vast beach and the surging sea stretching into the distance can feel as wild as any summit. The coast at Findhorn is the nearest to my home and a place I visit several times a year, each time thinking I mustn't leave it so long before I return again.

Findhorn Beach

On this late November afternoon the sky began blue with a bright sun then slowly faded to grey as clouds swept in from the west, thin at first and then gradually thickening and darkening. The tide had just turned and was still high on the beach, roaring against the shingle. Out beyond the crashing waves in calmer water rafts of common scoter ducks floated on the sea, their dark mass dotted with splashes of the white of eider ducks. Oystercatchers ran along the water's edge and gulls soared overhead.

The tide surges

The tide retreats

I wandered down to the sea's edge. The foaming water raced over the sand to lap against my feet then slid back across the barely sloping beach, leaving streaks of white.

By the time I reached the curving shingle spit that marks the curving narrow mouth of Findhorn Bay the sky was mostly clouded, the water pale and shining. A lone kayaker let the racing tide carry his craft out towards the open sea. Out on a sandbank lay the dark silhouettes of seals, their mournfall cries carrying across the water.

The mouth of Findhorn Bay

Findorn Quietness

With the hills in cloud and the forests and glens midge-infested the coast seemed a good place for a walk so we went to Findhorn to look at the sea and the sand and the sky and the clouds on a day of  soft subtle light. There was a gentle breeze and the air was warm. The clouds were thin but sunshine never quite broke through.

After lunch at the excellent Phoenix Cafe at the Findhorn Foundation we wandered along the beach. The tide was low and the sea calm. Streaks of water ran through wide bands of sand and shingle. Far out to sea yachts drifted slowly. Gulls dotted the sand, occasionally flapping slowly along the water's edge. A tern dived suddenly, plunging gracefully down. Oystercatchers shrieked, breaking the soft silence. Peaceful. It was very peaceful.

As always on Findhorn Beach there was a wonderful sense of space and freedom, a feeling of escape and beauty. We weren't alone. Others wandered the sand, children built sand castles, a few ventured into the sea. But the vastness of the land and the sea and the sky remained. The only jarring note was the sight of the construction of the first beach huts along the edge of the beach. Maybe though, once the machines have gone and the bright colours have weathered and faded they'll sink into the background, overwhelmed by the landscape.