For some, sex in the great outdoors is an adventure, a fantasy, a longed-for nirvana. For most that is what it remains, a distant, unfulfilled dream; a more than pleasant thought that enters the mind unbidden - if not altogether unwelcome. For others it is something that comes naturally, not a dirty secret to be shy about but simply an integral part of an alternative life cycle.
Sex was the last thing on my mind when I set out one fine day in late March for a walk in Wester Ross with my wife, Doreen and daughter, Lisa. The sun felt unseasonably warm on our faces as we skirted the southern edge of Loch a’ Bhraoin. The westernmost tops of the Fannichs, still dressed in a light covering of snow, were reflected in its calm waters. We walked and talked, at ease with the world, looking around us expecting to see a plethora of wildlife on such a fine, spring morning. At first, there was neither bird nor beast to be seen.
How quickly that was to change. We rounded a corner past a deep cut in an exposed peat hag. And there, in the water before us, a mass of squirming bodies. Intertwined. Writhing. Jostling for a superior position. A mass orgy was taking place before our eyes. It was impossible to count how many were involved. Impossible to distinguish one gender from the other. Our presence meant nothing to them. They continued unabashed. Engrossed, absorbed, enthralled, ecstatic – I don’t know which word best describes the enthusiastic commitment of those involved in that tangled, twisting mound of flesh.
As for ourselves, we were instantly fascinated voyeurs, savouring the uninhibited intimacy. Edging closer, digital cameras in hand, we tried to record the scene without disturbing those involved. No matter how close we went, their participation in the reproductive process continued undiminished. Our presence never registered – or if it did, it failed to divert a single participant from their pleasurable purpose. Such is nature and the power of procreation which drove them on.
They weren’t the only frogs we saw that day, but the surprise at seeing that first, frantic thrashing in the dark, peaty water was a simple reminder that there is more life in the landscape than might appear at first glance. Sometimes we need to stop, to look, to listen. Only then will we absorb what life there is around us.
The mew of a buzzard drew our eyes upward until it was spotted, circling high overhead. A barely-noticeable movement announced to us the presence of a small group of red deer hinds on the far hillside; and in the still water of the loch, spreading circles announced the brief surfacing of what was most probably a brown trout. But as we walked on, we paid more attention to the ground at our feet and the puddles beside the path. That was where the life was. An occasional fat, black slug or hairy, brown caterpillar slithered slowly and silently across the track but it was in the water where most of the action was taking place.
Every patch of H2O, no matter its size, seemed to have its quota of frogs, toads or tadpoles. In some, only the staring eyes betrayed their presence. In others, occasional croaks and squelches announced the enthusiastic coupling that stirred the peaty water into a frothing, murky morass. Forget “breeding like rabbits”, “frolicking like frogs” was the theme for the day. If even a tiny fraction of the couplings led to a successful fertilisation, the Scottish population of amphibians would increase at least a hundredfold before summer came round. By the time we reached the car, we’d already decided - inevitable I suppose - that the day would henceforth be remembered as “the day of the frogs”.
As we sat in the Aultguish Inn – another “inevitability” when coming off the hills in that part of Ross-shire –we supped the well-earned refreshments and reflected on our day. Our laughter drew the attention of a solitary customer, standing at the bar and marking the end of his working day with a quiet pint.
“Ah couldnae help overhearing,” he said. “Aboot the frogs. Ye can hardly move withoot squashing the buggers at this time o year. It’s worse at night - Ah crush hunners o them on the road. Ye can hear them pop when the van runs ower them. ”
He tipped back his glass, drained the last of his pint and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Aye,” he sighed. “They dammed frogs; they’re taking ower the world.”
From that moment, it was no longer “the day of the frogs”. For us, it will forever be “the day the frogs took over the world”.