Rhoda Meek: Gooseburgers, otters and a perfect septic tank starter

Whilst those goose lovers are no doubt poring over a recent Times article ­titled Five Of The Best Places To See Geese In Scotland, crofters are ­wearily ­preparing themselves for the winter ­influx because If you want to see a crofter cry, mention geese.

There is no doubt that geese are ­majestic birds. Anywhere else they would probably be stunning to watch, but when your croft is covered in the feathered fiends, the only stunning things are the sheer quantity of grass they consume, and the volume of ­excrement they produce.

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My croft is particularly appealing, as it is low lying and flat, with nice big expanses of open ground.

Most of Tiree, Uist and ­Islay can be ­described in similar terms – and they are all going under in migratory geese in the winter.

These grass thieves migrate from ­Iceland in search of warmer climes. Tiree has long been a stronghold for Greenland White-fronted Geese, with thousands of these birds overwintering here each year. We have our fair share of Barnacles too. Both of these birds are protected, and cannot be shot.

Instead, in the areas where they are most problematic – Tiree, Coll, Uist and Islay – there is the NatureScot ­Barnacle Goose Management Scheme. Instead of scaring them – which is almost ­impossible given their complete lack of fear – ­crofters in the worst-affected crofts are paid to leave them alone.

The goal is to ­balance the interests of conservation and ­agriculture, but few of us would agree that the small monetary recompense – ­designed to help support reseeding – comes even close to making up for the damage done – much of which has to be offset by importing feed.

To give you an idea of numbers, in 2018/19, an averaged partial count found 6178 Barnacle Geese in North Uist. Tiree and Coll, at a fraction of the size, had an average count of 4179. Tiree produces around 6000 lambs each year.

Migratory geese are not the only ­problem – increasing numbers of ­Greylag and ­Canada geese are resident in ­Scotland. They can be shot legally ­between ­September 1 and January 31. And, due to the significant problems they are causing, they can also be killed under general licences that cover the whole year, including the closed season.

Even then, despite our local estate regularly bringing over shooting parties to dispatch them, the volume of geese never seems to drop.

It often feels like these filthy grass thieves have more rights than the ­crofters themselves and most of us would ­cheerfully mince the whole lot given half a chance.

In fact, although the Wildlife and ­Countryside Act forbids the sale of wild goose meat, there is a licence which ­allows the sale of Greylag goose meat killed in Orkney, Tiree, Coll and the ­Outer ­Hebrides.

It’s not as easy as that as ­anyone who has ever tried to produce a food product in an island context will know, but they do make a delicious burger, and they taste all the better when you’ve spent the ­winter swearing at them.

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Sea Eagles have cottoned on to this menu option. Fairly controversial ­themselves, to say the least, they soar over from Mull on the thermals and have ­developed a taste for Greylag goose. If they stick to geese and stay away from lambs, then they have the Tirisidich’s full support.

Nature is amazing, but it most ­certainly isn’t all fluff and feathers. As people ­become increasingly disconnected from the reality of where food comes from, and the work that must be done to keep threats under control – whether that’s mice, rats, geese or eagles -– there is a growing trend towards ascribing ­personalities to these predators.

A truly egregious example of this ­phenomenon is Steve the Otter. He’s ­everywhere I look and I am heartily sick of him.

If you have not yet been blessed with Steve in your feed, Steve the Otter is a social media exercise which has spawned any number of witty cartoons and ­merchandise.

Between him, island social media groups swooning over grainy pictures of these beasts, gift shops heaving with ­otter notelets and cards, and the ­general ­propensity people are developing to look at nature and anthropomorphise it, I would cheerfully chuck the next otter I see into the septic tank.

Which, incidentally, is what they used to be used for when found dead. I’m told that their particular combination of ­bacteria is the perfect starter for an ­old-style septic tank. If you are on mains sewerage, a septic tank might be a new concept. If you aren’t sure what type of sewage system you are on, you are on the mains. If you have a septic tank you know, and if it was a new concept at the time, then you probably learned the hard way.

So, how does it work? I’m no scientist, so I’ll keep it simple. Instead of flushing your problems away, a big tank in your garden collects them all. And a combination of bacteria breaks them down. If it goes wrong and things get backed up, then the problem is all yours – not a council operative in sight – just you, a set of rods, a pair of wellies and a promise from the plumber that he’ll be over in a few weeks. The less you think about it the better.

Although I can assure you, it very much focuses your mind on what should and should not be put down the pan. So, think of the otter like a sourdough starter. It gets the bacterial process off to a nice strong start.

Or it used to – back in the days when roadkill was useful rather than cause for an outpouring of Facebook grief and a gnashing of teeth which would give a ­royal death a run for its money.

Two otters were killed in one night in Tiree last year – an unfortunate ­coincidence which resulted in the kind of Facebook comments section that you imagine in your worst nightmares (or when I write about Gaelic road signs). We called it “Ottergate”.

Everyone was blamed – tourists not watching where they were going, locals speeding, everyone had an opinion, there were lots of crying faces and broken heart emojis and all I wanted to know was whether or not a corpse might be ­­available … Otters are not cute and fluffy. They are evil, vicious, and voracious hunters. They have a jaw on them that would break your arm and an insatiable desire for hen. My family have had a few close encounters with Steve. And in every case, the hens came off worst.

There was a time many, many years ago when my dad found one asleep in the hen house. He went back in armed with a fence post. He’s never revealed who came off worst. The fact that we call them the “biast dubh” (black beast) in Gaelic should tell you all you need to know.

Nature red in tooth and claw is just a little too much for people these days. It’s high time a dose of reality was ­dispensed.

So, if you never see an otter again ­without thinking about a septic tank and a goose burger, then my work here is done.