“It looked every bit like a flying machine, not the mud-waddling, plodding Muscovy that I am familiar with”
Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley
THICK cloud rolled in from the open Atlantic, obliterating our view of the hills. Though we couldn’t see up, nor far out to sea, we could see down, down to Keem Strand through a heavy haze of steaming summer rain that greyed the surf and dulled the golden sand. We had talked about climbing to the hilltop lookout, but not in this weather. A mere ten minutes back we had been looking up at our would-be goal and mentally choosing the path we each would take, both aware that despite our having made light of the merest suggestion of a race the matter was to be taken seriously.
A Muscovy duck sat in the car park, a distinctly abject expression etched into its features. What was a Muscovy duck doing at the far end of Achill Island, miles from the nearest human habitation? These are domesticated birds, heavy in the body and weak of wing, and rarely found far from their farmyard homes. I have met them before in a semi-feral state, when they normally team up with their wild cousins until the latter take the urge to fly some distance. Then the fat old farm duck gets left behind and has to either revert to domesticity or live a lonely, perilous life out on the lake.
Was this such a bird? The more I watched it, the more I was sure there was something different about it. It looked too slender to have strayed from a farm, and the lines were sleek and graceful, the markings even and the colours crisp, with a metallic sheen. It looked every bit like a flying machine, not the mud-waddling, plodding Muscovy that I am familiar with.
It didn’t fly, no matter how it looked as though it could. It sat forlornly in the rain, waiting to be fed, moving only as far as was necessary for it to stay out of reach. Perhaps I could have captured it, but what then? Ducks are endowed with their own peculiar aroma, one which definitely does not belong in the boot of the car.
It could be that this duck had outgrown its home, that somebody had taken it to the beach and left it there to fend for itself. Somebody with a number of ducks, who had tired of the endless violent confrontations that are bound to occur between two males of the same species. One had to go. It can be hard to find a home for such a creature. Abandonment might have seemed like the best option. It never is.
There was little else of interest to be found. Hill-walking was out of the question. Even when the one torrential downpour had passed on up the mountain we could see the next moving swiftly inland, a miniature tempest churning up the waves along its path, darkening the surface of the ocean with its shadow.
We scrabbled for the elusive amethyst among the rubble of an ancient rock fall, finding only a small piece of pinkish quartzite that caused momentary excitement until it was correctly identified. When I first learned of the presence of this semi-precious stone I had visions of bringing it home by the cartload. So far I have found none. No doubt I am searching in the wrong places, at the wrong times, and going the wrong way about it. I get a glimmering view of the frustration that must have accompanied so many of those that went to the Yukon in search of gold; I even feel a twinge of ‘amethyst fever’ – if only I keep searching I shall strike it rich.
But Achill has other, greater treasures.
Good numbers of basking sharks have already been seen offshore this year, and when the warm weather settles upon us once more these giant fish will move close to the mainland. Dolphin and porpoise are present off the coast the entire year, though they are largely hidden by an inhospitable sea. Warming waters are continually bringing unusual and exciting marine creatures to the shoreline, making low water rock pooling a rewarding experience.
There are increasing levels of awareness and appreciation for the natural world, and great opportunities for ecotourism. One or two people are making a start, diving, fishing, sailing. There is room for more.
