Monday Afternoon at Loirston Loch

Grey Heron Behaviour in Aberdeen

It wasn’t supposed to be spectacular.

Loirston Loch is an odd little place. It feels as though it shouldn’t really exist. Split in two by one of Aberdeen’s busiest trunk roads, it’s easy to drive past without giving it a second thought.

Yet on any afternoon you’ll find people walking their dogs around its paths. Occasionally someone casts a line into the water, although the anglers seem far fewer these days than the walkers.

Beyond the traffic, another world carries on regardless.

I’d visited before and had seen at least one heron working the edges of the loch. I suspected there were more. The problem was access. They seemed to favour the awkward, half-hidden corners — the places that gave them space, cover and a clear view of anything approaching. Sensible choices for a heron, less convenient for a photographer.

Over a few visits I’d started to learn where they liked to fish, where they landed, and the routes they seemed to fly between. Monday was simply another visit..

The herons weren’t there for me.

They weren’t performing.

They were defending territories, fishing, flying, landing and occasionally arguing, exactly as they would have done if I’d never arrived.

Some afternoons you come home wondering whether you’ve captured anything worthwhile.

This wasn’t one of those afternoons.

I drove home shaking with excitement.

Quiet Flight

There were moments when everything became almost silent. A heron crossed the loch just above the surface, moving with an ease that made its two-metre wingspan seem weightless.

The Neighbours

The loch never really belonged to one bird. Paths crossed, territories overlapped and every now and again another heron would appear from nowhere.

The Arrival

Elegant in flight, prehistoric on landing. Long toes spread, wings acting as air brakes, the final few feet looked far less graceful than the journey that preceded them.

A Place Worth Defending

Before the afternoon became more animated, there was the quieter business of feeding. Along the edge of the loch, a heron worked the shallows with slow, deliberate steps, every movement measured. A small catch was taken and swallowed almost matter-of-factly. Nothing about it felt dramatic, but it made the shoreline feel important — not just somewhere to stand, but somewhere worth returning to.

The Peace Breaks

Every so often, another heron would arrive too close, linger too long, or claim a stretch of water that was already spoken for.

Across the Water

The confrontations continued with peaks and troughs. One moment the loch felt settled, the next two herons were skimming across the surface, wings beating hard, feet almost touching the water. There was no grand confrontation, no staged drama — just a sudden burst of purpose as one bird drove another away from a stretch of water it had clearly decided was its own. They were simply settling whatever business herons settle on a Monday afternoon.

The Loch Exhales

And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the urgency drained away. A heron crossed the water alone, low and steady, and the loch seemed to quieten again. Beneath it, another bird drifted on, apparently unconcerned by the brief commotion above. The drama had passed, but I was seeing the loch differently now. What had looked peaceful from a distance was full of little boundaries, routines and disputes.

Life Carries On

By the time everything settled, the loch had returned to its familiar rhythm. A heron stood among the rocks, while a coot and mallard moved through the water below, each going about its own small business. After the flights, the chase and the territorial arguments, this quieter scene felt like the truest ending: not a performance, not a finale, just life continuing at the edge of the water.

I left the loch far more excited than I’d expected to be. Not because the herons had performed for me, but because I’d been allowed to watch a small part of their afternoon unfold. The flights, the feeding, the chasing and the quiet moments between them were simply life carrying on at the edge of the water.

I’ll probably never drive past Loirston Loch in quite the same way again.