Drowned, Drained, Swamped & Bogged Down:

Initiating A Creative Exploration Of Mythterious Scottish Marshes & Wetlands

Landscape 2: CATHKIN MARSH & CATHKIN BRAES, Glasgow

A local gem of fen and marshy grassland leading, via country lanes, to a large country park with ancient woodland, rich heritage and expansive views of Glasgow and beyond. Southeast of Glasgow city, south of Castlemilk, Fernhill and Burnside.

Habitats identified: Marshy grassland, wet grassland, marsh, wet heath, woodland.

Read about my landscape visit below and view my creative responses here.

Cathkin Marshes is up a narrow track off a country lane on the outskirts of Glasgow. Leaving the city to the southeast, traffic jams quickly gave way to country lanes, farms and fields. I was in the greenbelt, and given the proximity to the city, I was surprised at how rural the area felt - a world away from the heaving sprawl just over the horizon.

It was a mild April day and the blue sky was displaying some picture-book clouds, white and cottony, as well as stormy greys. I’d read Cathkin Marsh was a hidden gem. At the foot of the track, a sign stated the gates were closed due to fly-tipping - a perennial problem in the quieter areas of the city’s reach. Crunching my way to the top of the gravel path, a was instantly hit by the buzz of the rich area of biodiversity, stretched out before me. Clearly distinct from the plainness of surrounding fields - the complexity of colour and texture was a mosaic of habitats and of life. 

At the end of the path, at the crossroads to the haven beyond, I was delighted to be greeted by a male Reed Bunting. This arrival party was puffed up like a peach - sooty black head proud above white neckerchief, grey breast and brown wing.

I am no twitcher - I just recognise most British birds from my days flicking through guidebooks as a child. I do usually like to check before committing to a name, for anything beyond everyday sightings. On this occasion I was correct. And a Reed Bunting indicated… reeds. This was indeed a wetland!

In the tentative April sunshine, clear watery pools by the path rippled with the bright greens of weeds and new growth - that moment of the year when things are emerging from the dark peaty depths. The greens of fresh vegetation seemed to sing, but I was struck by the general silence in the air. I could see only two other people, far off - grey-haired bird watchers, complete with long lenses and camouflage jackets.

At the lake I took in freshness of the open water and watched feisty coots - their smooth black bodies shining like beetles and their sharp white beaks full of spring fight.

Walking around the lake, a vast expanse of brown sedges turned to reedbed - sandy stems swaying gently under the weight of last year’s wind-scorched seed heads. In a few weeks this whole area would be bright green once again and dancing with warblers and dragonflies. A faded sign, green with algae, told me to look out for water rail, snipe and… reed bunting! Well I’d ticked off one already.

I also should look out for peacock butterflies, roe deer, frogs, toads and an array of wetland plant species including marsh cinquefoil, northern marsh orchid and ragged robin. 

Cathkin Marsh is a beautiful area of fen and marshy grassland. The area is particularly known for its attractive displays of wildflowers during the summer, but I was too early for that. This site of marshy grassland is the best unimproved species rich grassland in Glasgow - over 100 different wildflowers provide valuable food for insects, and draw interesting species of bird to this edge of the city. Recent sightings included yellowhammers and wrens among the marsh violets.

As this was a relatively small area of marshland, I had already decided I would try to cover a larger area of landscape on this beautiful sunny day. I’d walk across the marsh and on to the nearby Cathkin Braes country park. If the weather held, I’d head all the way down into the heart of Glasgow’s south side- from countryside to city. 

The country park, which pretty much adjoins the marshland, is one of Glasgow's richest habitat mosaics, with sheltered areas of long-established and ancient woodland, species-rich unimproved grassland, dwarf shrub heath, marsh, bracken and thorn scrub areas. It would provide contrast to the open watery landscape currently laid before me. 

Heading in the direction of the reed beds I was struck by two distinct sounds. The never-ending twittering of skylarks, and the solitary song of a cuckoo. 

Skylarks had become a familiar sound last summer, when I lived briefly in a converted double-decker bus home on the outskirts of East London- every day skylarks sang and danced their displays in the small local nature reserve one field over, acting as my soundtrack to early Summer 2023.

But a cuckoo? I don’t think I’d ever heard one as an adult. Cuckoos for me had become almost fictional folkloric things. I’d come to associate them with cuckoo clocks when visiting my sister in Switzerland - I’d kind of forgotten they were actually real birds. I tore open my backpack and dug around for my field recorder, scrambling to attach the microphone and headphones. Holding my breath, I listened…

There were the skylarks.

A trilling chaffinch.

Some distant noises of the city, amplified by my highly-sensitive field mic. And…

Nothing else.

No cuckoo. 

I listened and listened.

No cuckoo. My racing heart sank a little.

In parts of Shetland, skylarks were also known as “our lady’s hen”; a bird who sings the praises of heaven under the protection of the Virgin Mary. Other names include Queen of Heaven’s hen - the nest of the skylark is deemed to be most sacred. Witnessing them singing from their high heavenly vantage point has been thought to foretell happiness.

There are also many Gaelic traditions connected to the cuckoo. If the bird called from a house-top or chimney, it was considered to be a prediction of the death of one of its inhabitants within the year. Superstition aside, I decided to keep recording and the headphones stayed on. Just in case the allusive bird returned.

Heading around the reedbed I passed one of the grey-haired birdwatchers who mouthed a “hello” and, glancing at my headphones, gave me a bemused smile.

The sound of my own footsteps on the gravelly path was loud in my ears, so I stopped still for a moment.

What was that noise? A kind of crackling. Was that something scratching the microphone? No. My clothing rustling? No. What then?

I scanned the field recorder around.

The reeds! Not only were they singing their usual woodwind swells with each gust, they were also popping and crackling. It was such an unusual sound when amplified through the headphones. I closed my eyes and listened deeply. Swells, pops and crackles, skylarks, chaffinches and the gentle hum of bees in the tree branches above me- perhaps feeding on the new pussy-willow flowers. I breathed in the sounds of nature, loud in my ears. Glorious. So deeply relaxing. Not a full chorus like at dawn, but a minimal modern orchestral hum, enchanting in its sparseness - operatic soloists over the drones of bees and twittery yo-yoing skylarks.

Hollowed out within the reed bed, a clear pool caught my attention. Filtered by the vegetation, the water was crystal clear and surrounded by fresh green shoots. Within the protected pocket of the pool, the tangled fingery roots of the reeds could be seen clawing up from the depths. As I stared at the stillness, the only movement was from occasional leeches which swim-danced their way across the pond through shafts of sunshine. Weirdly mesmerising - a beautiful “other” existence in the sheltered water.

Can a leech be beautiful?

I thought of the somewhat less beautiful Burach Bhadi from Scottish myth. A large eel-leech creature with 9 eyes, that lurks in the man-made lakes of Scotland - attracted by passing horses which it would attach to and drag down into the water to drain them of their blood. Leeches have intrigued humans for hundreds of years.

Despite their gruesome blood-sucking reputation, Medicinal Leeches have played an important role in medical history. They can grow up to twenty centimetres and can live for up to twenty years! And they can consume ten times their own body weight in blood during a single meal. Over-harvesting for bloodletting, particularly during the Victorian era, meant they were eventually declared extinct in the British Isles and they were only re-discovered in the 1950s. In 2023 a wild population was discovered in Dumfries and Galloway, bringing the total number of known Scottish sites to three. I’m no leech expert, but given their rarity I was fairly sure I could rule out having discovered population number four here in this pool on Cathkin Marsh. Besides, these were much smaller and darker.

Most of the leeches in the UK are completely harmless unless you’re a snail or a small invertebrate.

I walked on.

Having completed a circuit of the lake I followed the path uphill and gained a view overlooking the reserve. From this height (the view of a heavenly dancing skylark?) it was possible to see the full mosaic habitat below - the banded colours of vegetation interwoven in a rich tapestry. I breathed it in before leaving the small reserve past some muddy fields - complete with Shetland ponies, and mallards foraging for drowned worms.

I soon joined a narrow country lane which I followed towards the country park. Evidence of fly tipping reminded me I was still on the edge of the city.

Passing the entrance to Cathkin golf course I crossed the lane and reached the entrance to the wooded park. Covering the braes (steep banks or hillsides) are areas of mature beech, sycamore and oak trees, interspersed with grassland, heath, hedgerows and wetlands. The area forms excellent habitat for small birds of prey, like kestrels and owls.

Long before golfing was a thing, during the Iron Age, a Celtic tribe called the Damnonii lived here. The Damnonii (also referred to as Damnii) were a Brittonic people of the late 2nd century who lived in what became the Kingdom of Strathclyde by the Early Middle Ages (now southern Scotland). I wonder what they would have made of the golf course.

The woodland was still dozing at the end of winter’s long sleep; the bronze beech leaf litter masking most signs of Spring. The season here was starting high up in treetops, with bold Chaffinches singing and busy Great Tits darting among the treetops. My boots slipping over damp tree roots, I emerged into in an open grassy area surrounded by thicket and caught a glimpse of the breath-taking view beyond the gorse.

Coming from the gentle slopes of the South, I hadn’t really realised how high up I was. This was the highest point in Glasgow City area, and the views to the north were spectacular.

You can see the whole city from here - east to west, north to south. Tiny tower blocks backed by the Campsie Fells, Kilpatrick Hills and out towards the Trossachs and Ben Lomond. Down in the centre of the city, it is so easy to forget the landscape that surrounds you just a stones-throw away.

From the end of my road in Dennistoun where I live, I can see the Cathkin Braes - but they really don’t look that high or impressive. Up here the sense of scale was totally different. The tallest spires of the city were just needles and toothpicks in comparison to the backdrop of dramatic hills.

Speaking of hills, in Scotland, it is traditional to carry a stone up from the bottom of a hill to place on a mound at its top - to form a cairn. Cairns can be landmarks and/or also memorials, such as burial mounds.

Several large cairns were once found here at Cathkin Braes, though there is little evidence today.

With so many people contributing stones over the ages, the stacks or piles can grow ever larger. The old Scottish Gaelic blessing Cuiridh mi clach air do chàrn translates as "I'll put a stone on your cairn".

Why stone piles? Human custom and behaviour is a strange thing.

In Highland folklore it is recounted that before Highland clans fought in a battle, each man would place a stone in a pile. Those who survived the battle returned and removed a stone from the pile. The stones that remained were built into a cairn to honour the dead.

The largest cairn here at Cathkin Braes was named Queen’s Mary’s Cairn or Seat - after Scotland’s most famous queen, Mary Queen of Scots. The cairn measured 36 metres (120ft) in diameter and over 5 metres (18ft) high, surrounded by a ditch and small earthen dyke.

One of the most famous and controversial monarchs in history, Mary was forced to abdicate the throne of Scotland in favour of her infant son James VI who was considered a rightful heir of both Scotland and England.

From her seat at Cathkin Braes, Mary Queen of Scots supposedly observed defeat of her forces at the Battle of Langside on 13 May 1568. The battle was between forces loyal to Mary and forces acting in the name of her infant son James VI (later James I of England). This was the most significant battle to ever take place within Glasgow’s city boundaries. Forces in support of Mary were marching from Hamilton towards Dumbarton Castle when they found their path blocked by troops commanded by the Regent Moray.

Precise details of the battle are still contested but some believe that Mary headed up what towards Castlemilk House and over the Cathkin Braes heading to the south. This is due to legends associated with Mary and Castlemilk, such as her supposedly staying at Castlemilk House on the eve of battle - this is unlikely but perhaps she and her vanguard probably went there to get extra supplies. Also in the Cathkin Braes the party is said to have watered their horses at a well - which was known thereafter as Mary's Well.

After escaping imprisonment, the battle at Langside was Mary’s final defeat before she fled south to England and the “protection” of Queen Elizabeth I. However, once there she eventually faced captivity and eventual execution.

This could have been one of the last great views north that Mary saw of Scotland, before turning her back and feeling south. Although the sprawling Glasgow city has changed significantly since Mary’s day, she may well have breathed in the beauty of these age-old hills before turning away. Did she navigate the watery Cathkin Marsh as she headed south, I wonder? Was she buoyed by the songs of skylarks, or did cuckoo omens call of the ending to come?

The is cairn is now long gone. Its stones were removed in 1792 when 25 cinerary urns, were found on its west side. Each contained a cremation and a white quartz pebble; two contained bronze objects, also found were a two-edged 'comb', and 'a ring of bituminous coal', 10cm (4ins) diameter, 2.5cm (1in) wide and 60mm (1/4in) thick. In the bottom of the cairn and exactly in the centre of the area it occupied, was a cist of large slabs, around 1m (4ft) cube, with a gigantic coverstone. It contained only a little earth, but close to it were many small bones, mostly in fragments, among which were two identical cheek-pieces of a bridle-bit, of a type not current before 50 BC, and a ring-headed button-and-loop fastener. The present whereabouts of the artefacts found are not known.

Despite my prior research, I did not notice anything about Queen Mary, the cairn or any of the interesting artefacts on my visit - just a stone wall where an interpretation board once was. A shame considering the memory and mystery of this place. Today’s monuments - a radio mast and a huge wind turbine, towering over the marshy grassland

I think of the relationship of the cairn and the cairn’s content to the landscape. Was it stolen from the landscape or was it part of it? Has it now been returned?

The contrast of white quartz and bituminous coal also sparks interest.

Quartz crystals are formed under intense pressure down in the earth’s crust - forming in igneous rocks as the magma cools down. As hard things go, quartz is incredibly hard, above even stainless steel. It gives off an electric charge when mechanically pressurised. Those who believe in crystal healing use it to amplify the strength of other crystals because of this effect. White quartz has been believed to cure sick people and animals. It is also incredibly beautiful.

And coal? Coal from the Braes themselves would have once been extracted to power the city’s factories. How the view from the Braes must have changed as the Industrial Revolution transformed the landscape below with chimneys and smoke.

I think of the sooty head of the Reed Bunting. And like its bright white neckerchief, like quartz. Pure. Like sugar.

Indeed it was sugar that would ultimately transformed Glasgow. Exploitation, slavery and all the worst of humanity, just so that wealthy people could drink their tea sweet and enjoy confectionary.

Cathkin Braes has further industrial connections. It was a rallying point in the Radical War, also known as the Scottish Insurrection of 1820. This was a week of strikes and unrest in Scotland, a culmination of radical demands for reform, which had become prominent in the early years of the French Revolution but had been repressed during the long Napoleonic Wars. An economic downturn after the wars ended brought increasing unrest, but the root cause was the Industrial Revolution. 

Artisan workers, particularly weavers in Scotland, sought action to force the government to enact Luddite protective restrictions. Gentry, fearing revolutionary horrors, recruited militia and the government deployed an apparatus of spies, informers and agent provocateurs to stamp out the movement.

It is interesting that today the Braes are home to a huge wind turbine. A monument to a future that humanity is not yet fully inhabiting, each sweep of its sails acts as a reminder to leave coal where coal belongs- in the hills. After stopping to marvel at its enormity I head West into the woodland.

The park has areas of mature beech, sycamore and oak trees, with small streams and waterfalls through them. In addition there is grassland, heath, hedgerows and wetlands, making this a reach habitat.

On the edge of the country park I emerge into a scrubby field on the edge of a housing estate. At a distance I notice some grazing deer before they notice me. Their perfectly delicate forms are a sharp contrast to fly-tipped waste, a burnt-out vehicle and boxy estate housing. It’s hard to believe deer graze so close to the suburban streets. A reminder of something lost.

Nature is finding its way here, but it’s hanging delicately and the odds are stacked against it. Like stones delicately balanced on one another. Or like the gentle hum of wildness competing with the sirens and battle cries of the city.

This place is very special, but I’m not sure enough people know it. As such, the nature clinging to the edge of the city can’t really know its fate. Just as Queen Mary didn’t know hers when she stood on these hills.

Perhaps the skylark and the cuckoo know something we don’t.

Time will tell.  

I head into the dirt and bustle of Glasgow’s southside streets to find the bus home.

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