BEAST OF THE GLEN Culicoides impunctatus is the proper name of
this odious creature – we, of course, know it as the midge. For a while we endured. I joked that the discomfort being infl icted upon us by the growing cloud of tiny black insects was the living equivalent of a hair shirt, and that through such intimate suffering our souls were being purifi ed. Juliet recounted how on family camping trips they had cut eye holes in towels and draped them over their heads, as the only way to exist outdoors. We laughed while trying to pretend that we
were still enjoying ourselves. But then the slight breeze dropped and the swarm of attackers multiplied to biblical proportions. I felt them now advancing towards my eyes. My arms were covered, as were my shoulders. Juliet was standing up and batting frantically. The boys were okay while under water, but immediately they surfaced their heads would be surrounded by a dancing halo. I lumbered over to the car with the notion of
fi nding some matches to start a fi re onto which I could heap bracken in an attempt to smoke the beasts into leaving. But then I remembered my early days on the island when I learned that, far from being intimidated by smoke, midges would quite happily land on a lit cigarette. I returned to the river to fi nd the boys trying
to dry themselves while frenziedly swatting in every direction. ‘Dad, let’s get the hell out of here!’ Luke shouted. He was right – there was no point in sitting
this one out. Complete retreat was the only course of action. And so we left the beautiful river alone in its pristine little glen. As the sound of our engine ebbed away into
the distance, tranquillity no doubt returned. The trout could slip out once more from their hidden eddies and holes. The woodpecker could return to its nearby tree. No human interruption any more, just the gurgle of the river, the humming of bees and the distant call of the cuckoo. Once again, as Scotland’s greatest guardians
away from me as fast as they could. In fact, almost every creature I can think of is desperate to escape us, bar the mosquito, which is easily dealt with using a mosquito coil and some spray if necessary. This was on my mind a few weeks ago when
we took the boys to swim in the Lussa river here on the Isle of Mull. It was a perfect day, sunny and bright, the river sparkling obligingly as the cubs jumped in and splashed and swam about like little otters. Juliet and I sat and watched contentedly – at least for the full 30 seconds that it took for the CO2 from our breathing to announce our presence to what I believe to be the world’s worst insect.
WWW.SCOTTISHFIELD.CO.UK 99
of our precious wild places, the midges had done their job admirably. These vicious little rangers have ensured that our remote country can never be overrun by the only true pest species on earth – the great swarm that we call mankind.
Below: Midges can only lay their eggs after a blood meal – hence the ferocious desire for human fl esh.
‘The slight breeze dropped and the swarm of attackers multiplied to biblical proportions’
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