Bog Myrtle & Peat

Frogs have become incredibly conspicuous over the past few days, and it seems like every ditch and burn is filled with wriggling bodies. American cartoons gave us an exaggerated idea of what a croaking frog sounds like, and while it may be true on the other side of the Atlantic, it does not really apply in Scotland. Our frogs (standard “common frogs” rana temporia) are quite subtle when they call, and the sound they make can best be compared to the gut rumblings of a labrador retriever with a belly full of rotten sheep.

The croaking creaks and bubbles, and the slightest human disturbance sends their lugubrious display into a turmoil of pathetically clumsy fumbling. Within seconds, they all vanish, leaving only huge blooms of ghost-like spawn in their wake.

I managed to photograph a pair of them as they mated in a rushy patch beneath the main grouse moor, and their fixed expressions of concentration finally made me look away as if I was intruding on something explicit and grotesque. Thankfully, their sinister orgies are being interrupted here and there by predators, and I found the remains of one sad amphibian on a track which is now regularly used by otters.

I suppose I should admire their sexual industry, but I can’t help finding it a little unsavoury.