According to an informant, the primary school children of Aberlady used to say that the village’s name was in fact A bare lady, and they had a story to explain why. But then they would, wouldn’t they ?! Actually, it probably refers to the fact that it sits beside the estuary or mouth of the river once known as the Leddie.
According to the Rev. John Smith, writing in 1845, ‘Aberlady does not appear to have been ever the scene of any very memorable event, nor is it famous in history as the birth-place, or place of residence, of any very eminent man.’ [1] However, as my Professor and friend, the late Colwyn Trevarthen, lived there, I hereby up-date Rev. Smith’s conclusion.[2]
Aberlady is in the Scottish County of East Lothian, on the southern shore of the Firth of Forth, about 17 miles by road east of Edinburgh. The estuary of the river – now called the Peffer Burn – is otherwise known as Aberlady Bay and was Britain’s first local nature reserve, established in 1952. It is also part of the Firth of Forth site of Special Scientific Interest owing to both its wildlife and its geology.
Among the wildlife are great flocks of wintering greylag geese (Anser anser) which roost on the bay and around its edges. One winter evening we watched them arrive. They first appeared as a pattern of lace across the sky, a multitude of constantly shifting lines and V formations. Once above the bay, they descended rapidly by tipping the air from under their wings, rolling first one way and then the other, until they were all settled on the low-tide sands.[3]
My most recent of many visits to Aberlady and the Bay was in early 2025. I walked out from the village to Killspindie Golf Course and to Aberlady Point, where I sat on the bladder-wrack covered rocks to eat my picnic lunch. On my way there the Bay didn’t disappoint. The tide was out, leaving ample mud and sand between the creeks for both ducks and waders : groups of teal and widgeon, random shelduck, curlew, oystercatchers, redshank – and a gather of grey plover, with their soulful eyes and neat plover bills, quite unlike other waders. They flew off as I drew nearer, though still at some distance, revealing the diagnostic black patches under their wings. There were also crows, mallard and gulls of course, but they didn’t quite provide the interest of the others– at least, not yet.
The dark ribs of abandoned boats protruded from the mud here and there. Aberlady once served as the port of Haddington, five miles inland, and was visited by substantial vessels unloading timber, manure, bark for tanning, and even whale products. But this was in the middle ages. The current remnants are probably from 19th or early 20th century fishing vessels. A combination of good timbers and salt water seem to be an excellent recipe for preservation.
Sat on the rocks, enjoying my picnic, I found myself accompanied by a crowd of ‘gnats’. Happily, they were not Scotland’s notorious biting midges. Too early in the year for them, but a good time of year, I thought, for these tiny insects to emerge – too early for swallows, and nothing else I could think of that might feast on them. A minute or two later a black-headed gull flew onto view, performing curious, aerobatic maneuvers. It was flipping and flapping and grabbing at the air. It was, I realized, attempting to catch small (invisible to me) flying insects.
I also found a tiny beetle in my picnic bag. Now where had that come from ? Perhaps I had brought it with me.
I finished my picnic and headed back to the shore. As I stood up I heard a continuous, low roaring behind me which had not been there as I sat on the rocks. An aeroplane ? A fast boat ? Neither. It continued without either fading or getting louder and there was nothing to be seen. Eventually I worked it out – it was the sound of waves breaking on Gullane Sands, far across the bay.
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