WITH the tail-end of Storm Ashley buffeting the treetops by the River Devon estuary at Cambus, the air was laden with the confetti-like falling of autumnal leaves.

The vibrant colour of the leaves was a joy to behold, and a hazel tree by the track edge put on an especially vibrant show, glowing yellow under the soft afternoon light.

Rosehips and haws brought splashes of scarlet and there were still a few flowers in bloom, including red clover and knapweed.

For me, one of the most compelling aspects of the River Devon estuary is the incongruity between the surrounding built environment and the wildness of the river – nature and people co-existing in relative harmony.

Whisky warehouses encroach upon the northern and western edges of the estuary, and on the south bank of the Forth lies the old, and long decommissioned, naval munitions depot at Bandeath.

This munitions area, reflecting times of past conflict, consists of an accumulation of eerie grey buildings, each one sited a reasonable distance apart, presumably in case one of the storage facilities should have ever exploded, thus reducing the chances of a catastrophic chain reaction.

Looking downstream the River Forth, the fringes of Alloa loom into view, making this very much a place where the hand of humanity prevails.

Despite this, the Devon estuary and associated inner Forth have a wonderful natural aura, a place of ducks bobbing out on the water, cormorants diving in search of fish, and gulls wheeling in the air.

The nearby Cambus Pools on the western bank is a Scottish Wildlife Trust reserve, a rich reedbed that holds sedge warblers in summer, as well as reed buntings, moorhens and water rails.

By the other bank, there is a large pool in a flooded field, creating a rich oasis for wildlife, and a place where shelduck often linger.

As I made my way up the River Devon towards the inner Forth, a young cormorant caught my eye perched on a fallen tree branch in the water.

The cormorant is a bird vilified by fishery managers and its overall reputation with the general populace is certainly not helped by its reptilian profile. When seen silhouetted against the evening sky, with wings outstretched like a crucifix, its dark pterodactyl-like form does indeed look a bit sinister.

The all-consuming blackness of the plumage of the cormorant has resulted in the bird being long associated with evil and greed.

The name ‘cormorant’ owes its origin to the Latin for ‘sea raven’ – another bird treated with suspicion by mankind. In the epic poem Paradise Lost, John Milton portrays Satan himself breaking into Paradise and sitting on the Tree of Life “like a cormorant”, and Shakespeare’s play Richard II refers to the gluttony traditionally associated with the bird.

Pity the poor cormorant; it is, after all, just a bird that likes to eat fish and in that sense no different from the more revered kingfisher or osprey.