The wind dropped steadily overnight and the day turned misty, the temperature rising from a heady 4.9C first thing to 5.1C at midday. At some point, before the clouds lifted, it snowed on the tops, with Ben Hiant, seen here from the glen of the Achateny Water looking past Braehouse Cottage, receiving just a sprinkling while the hills down the Sound are snow-capped.
I'm fairly sure that it was a male, having a largish black bib, but we're not sure if it is the same blue tit each time.
I am so very deeply impressed. Other than the blue tits, no other bird has shown any interest in the peanuts, and it took the blue tits no time to work out how to free the nut. What is it, other than an innate curiosity, which makes the blue tits, whether of Devon or Ardnamurchan, so very, very clever?