The ebbing tide had laid bare the extensive mudflats of the outer Cromarty Firth. These rich feeding areas for wildfowl and waders stretched eastwards from my vantage point to the two narrow twin headlands called sutors that guard the entrance to the firth. For me the mud and sand flats epitomise the wildness of the Highlands just as much as the inland glens and hills, the latter with their tops now covered with snow. Who would think that this time last year deep snow and ice had lain here for weeks, and would have prevented us from driving here?

The dominant birds in the bay to our right were the greylag geese: they were obviously uneasy about something as their loud cackling and honking call notes echoed over the open scene. Perhaps they were watching for the tide to make again, or perhaps they were thinking of the journey ahead to their breeding grounds in Iceland. Whatever the reason, they kept flying up in small groups and circling to come back to the mud again. One such group, much larger than the others, did not turn again but circled higher and higher and then formed a typical v-shaped skein and headed east.

While the group started to climb in altitude, I realised that one bird looked pure white. It was almost mystical to see a white bird and at first I could scarcely believe my eyes. I could only think that it was a snow goose. It could have been a feral/escaped bird but I liked to think it was a true vagrant, possibly from Canada, as they do occasionally turn up. Meanwhile, the waders were busy along the water's edge not far from where we sat and the smallest – dunlins – looked like miniature clockwork toys. They pattered along next to the more sedate bar-tailed godwits, redshanks, curlews and oystercatchers, but the snow goose stole the show.