An Autumn's Walk

A tap on the shoulder from a small paw accompanied by a small terrier grump; Dillon, the 47 varities dog, was reminding me it was "walkies" time.

It was a bright afternoon and warm for the time of year and, as I dressed accordingly, Dillon's excitement and squeaks of delight increased with every layer I put on. Collar and lead on, pooh bags in the pocket, out the door and we were off.

At the bottom of the path Dillon went right which meant he wanted to go down to the Dee. The next decision he faced was to head back towards Kirkcudbright Harbour or out towards Tongland - it is, after all, his walk. Tongland was the next decision.

So off we went in the late Autumn sun; him sniffing to see which of his pals had been about since we last walked this way or ears twitching for any chance of a vole or field mouse about to break cover so he could do his terrier "thing" and break its neck with a quick snap and shake; then spend five minutes throwing the corpse this way and that while chasing after it.

I spent my time while Dillon is off sniffing, watching curlew and red shank foraging on the mudflat edge, a shy dunnock bobbing around amongst fallen crab apples whilst in the nearby hedge, their noisy spruggy relatives were already shouting the odds at each other about who was sleeping where that night and with whom. Under the same hedgerow, on a late summer evening, Dillon and I once met one of the local hedgehogs who at first went into a defensive ball but slowly reassured neither me nor Dillon offered any harm, shyly came out to see us. Dillon was more interested in checking this new creature out to decide whether friend or foe, rather than mount any sort of attack. The hedgehog then sauntered off to where ever they had been going in the first place, after having a nose to nose sniff with Dillon as if in a polite nice meeting you but you are a dog, so I am off.

Meanwhile Dillon carried on checking the state of health and fecundity of other dogs who had passed by way of the base of a tree or tussock of wrack grass. I observed a heron on the far bank, fishing the falling tide for spawning mullet, watching their success with a quick dart and then the head well back as they swallowed their good fortune.

As I waited for the end of one particular scent research with added Dillon, a small glint of yellow caught my eye in the hedge row. Goldfinch, yellow hammer? No, the body was far too small. I watched the silhouette dance around next year's leaf buds - prodding here, poking there.

Then suddenly, the little bird appeared in the open, looking straight at me as I looked at him with his jaunty yellow mohican hair do, bright button eyes and olive green head. We looked at each other for what seemed like minutes but was only a few seconds. Mr Goldcrest decided neither me nor Dillon was a threat to him garnering his last meal of the day to get him throught the night and hopped back into the hawthorn bush without a "bye your leave" to continue his search for a good meal.

I stood at first numb, then joyous that such a shy, little bird would have stood a few feet away, in the open, on a twig, apparently checking me over as much as I was him.

The dashing flight of a red kite across our path, the bickering of black birds, the harsh cry of herring gulls, the shag drying its wings nor the calming chuckle of crows reassuring each other matched the encounter with Mr Goldcrest; all lost their usual glow.

Even a flight of fieldfares bursting like a silver firework from a hawthorn tree paled into insignificance, that day, against the fifteen seconds I spent with Mr Goldcrest, face to face, as Dillon sniffed and snuffled around the base of a damson tree.