This summer, we launched our Words of the Wild nature writing competition, encouraging people to send us stories inspired by Scotland’s wildlife and wild places. We had a fantastic response, with over 500 entries submitted. Below, you can read the entry from our adult winner, Hannah Murphy.

In the Stillness

by Hannah Murphy

My wife and I often joke that she’d trade her ring to meet George Clooney, her silver fox, while I’d trade mine to photograph a kingfisher. Now that I am retired and she has five years to go, I spend my mornings by the river, waiting for my elusive bird while she is at work, dreaming of George Clooney. I hope she never retires, lest she go searching for the silver fox. I’m afraid she’d find him and never come back.

At dawn, I kiss my wife goodbye, who’s indulging in extra sleep on her day off. She’s snoring again, but every time I mention it, she’s adamant she sounds like an angel. I smirk at the strange creature and tiptoe downstairs, avoiding the creaking pressure points. I grab my green parka jacket, slip on my brown walking boots and tie my laces. I take a deep breath before slowly rising, and my knees ache. I know I’m getting slower, but that’s okay.

The dewy grass glistens in the morning sun, droplets sliding down the blades. A pleasant mist hovers over the tall grass, and the air feels crisp against my cheeks. I wish I could put the tranquillity in a bottle. I stroll along the stony path, now overrun with grass. But before I reach the white gate, a red squirrel leaps over it, and a bee follows, flying to the sweet-smelling lavender. I always tell my wife that if no bees come to our garden, there’s no point having one.

The early morning stroll to my riverside spot is quick through the forest, but I take it slow, guided by the gentle breeze. This forest has thrived as my faithful friend throughout the decades.

My boots squelch in the mud, its earthy musk awakening treasured memories of my granddaughter. She’s in her stamp every puddle phase. Hidden in the oak trees, robins serenade me. I pause and spot one on the tallest branch with a puffed-out orange chest.

The path descends to a fork, and I turn left to find my stream. Wooden steps, clothed in moss, take me down a lower path where my river is straight ahead. A shimmering mist hovers over the stream as the sun waits for it to pass—the perfect front-row seat for my kingfisher.

With my eyes sharp and camera ready, I wait on a bench by the riverbank. Slowly, the mist surrenders to the sun, and rays reflect on the gentle river, waltzing peacefully. This scene is a sanctuary to me, bestowing serenity, though I have done nothing to deserve it. I inhale deeply and whistle with the breeze as I have done for countless mornings and will do for many more.

A happy family of mallard ducks meander into vision. They ‘duck’ under a giant branch suspended over the water. I press the shutter, capturing the moment for my granddaughter. She wants to be a duck when she’s older.

I lean forward and smile. I’m sure if my grey eyes could sparkle, they would. The synchrony of birdsong, swaying trees and flowing water refreshes me. And any minute now, my beauty shall arrive.

Hours pass—no kingfisher. But I remain hopeful and have my cameras ready. I’m on the edge of my bench, my eyes wide in awe, and my cheeks ache from smiling. My heart is free to dance by the river, though I am still, and my stomach flutters with every bird I see.

Two hours later, I hear children behind me walking home from school. I rest my chin on my hand and yawn. The trees droop their branches in solidarity, hoping for a sighting, but they can only house the birds, not call them. Yet, the river perseveres, gifting clear water to the sea, so I refuse to give up, too.

Dinner is soon, and I appreciate the time I spent here, knowing he will arrive one day. Just as I rise, my heart leaps — there he is, a streak of blue! My kingfisher shoots across the river. My heart pounds, the camera clicks, and I hold my breath. He lands on the suspended branch, his cobalt blue dots shimmering like fish scales. He dives, rises with a minnow in his beak, and hits it against the branch before eating. My eyes don’t blink as my camera clicks in a frenzy.

Time feels still as I stand frozen. What a crown jewel he is, and he is so close to me. His body is a jubilee of turquoise blue feathers, mistletoe green edges, and an autumnal orange belly. He is radiant, even when diving for seconds. My dad always said the kingfisher’s beauty blooms without the need for spring, is stunning in summer’s glow, enchanting in autumn’s fire, and peaceful on a snowy winter’s day.

Then, he flies away and out of sight. Off again on another adventure beyond the river. I place my camera to the side and laugh. It is truly spectacular, and I wonder if he’ll be back tomorrow.

My camera’s memory is full as I dash home to my wife. My hands tremble as I anxiously turn the key in the door. Stiff fingers fight for patience, but my racing heart says no, my granddaughter’s favourite word. I fling the front door, throw off my boots, and shout, “Darling, come quick. I saw one.”

“I’m in here,” she calls from the dining room.

The rich aroma of gravy, rosemary, caramelised potatoes, and steaming broccoli greets me as I enter. “What’s the occasion? It’s not Sunday.”

“I thought a roast would cheer you up if you didn’t find your bird. You’ve been looking for weeks.”

“And it was worth it.”

Read the entries from our other two adult finalists:

• A Walk in the Wild by Anne V McClure
• Òran an Fhèidh by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir