The Spirit of St Agnes

April 26, 2018April 18, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

As soon as we docked at St Agnes’ Quay I asked a nearby guide when it was safe to cross over to Gugh, the neighbouring island linked to St Agnes by a sand bridge that disappeared when the tide came in. Getting stranded on an island with two houses and no facilities would be less than ideal. Luckily, the guide told me that the tide would be far enough out to be able to cross all day, so I made my way over to Gugh. My first object of interest was the Old Man of Gugh, a menhir dating back from the Bronze Age. Menhirs are tall upright standing stones erected by people living on the islands many thousands of years ago.

After getting acquainted with the Old Man, I wandered down to Beady Pool, so named because to this day ceramic beads from a 17^th century Venetian shipwreck can be found there. Although it was tempting to have a little look, I already had enough miniscule treasure to find, so after eating my lunch looking out to sea (again!) I walked out to Wingletang Down.

The first thing I noticed – after the forest of gorse that almost completely covered Wingletang Down – was the Devil’s Punchbowl; a curious name for a curious phenomenon. It was described as a rocking stone because it was positioned in such a way that it rocked easily from side to side. Looking loosely like a ball and socket joint, the top of the stone was a sphere cut in half, resting on top of a thick, squat column of stone. What was most intriguing was that the stone was completely natural. Somehow, Mother Nature had created the Devil’s Punchbowl for seemingly no reason other than to exist, perched at the tip of St Agnes.

Amongst all the orange of the gorse were the delicate flowers of Ornithopus pinnatus, my target wild plant on St Agnes. After nibbling a few Haribo and admiring the Punchbowl a little longer, I began to search for it. However, after seemingly no time I noticed that time was running away from me again, and I headed around St Warna’s Cove towards another peculiarity: the Nag’s Head. Another naturally occurring feature of the landscape fully exposed to the Atlantic, the granite stone has been moulded into unusual shapes by the water and wind, so now it has a likeness to the head of a horse. William Borlase, a Cornish antiquarian saw the strange hollows and shapes of the Nag’s Head and thought the stone had been moulded by ancient cups and bowls, when in fact every mark on the granite is natural. It was yet another feature of the Scilly landscape that gave it its intriguing and quite unique personality.

Exploring Bryher

April 22, 2018March 10, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

When I arrived on Bryher I was reminded of how scarcely populated the 1½-mile long island was. After an initial buzz of human activity at the quay, tourists and locals dispersed and I suddenly found myself completely alone, except for the ever-present wrens of course. One was perched high against the skyline only a few feet away, trilling with all its might. According to some Scillonians, wrens here are slightly different to those on the mainland. Their songs are different, and their mottled body markings are brighter. Perhaps this is a little Scillonian pride, but the shrews, bee and blackbirds are all unique here so I liked to entertain the possibility that Scilly wrens were just as special.

Bolstered by the wren’s enthusiasm, I made my way towards the northern side of the island, where the infamous Hell Bay laid waiting. So called because of its treacherous and unforgiving nature that had caused many a shipwreck in years past, it was hellish and beautiful in equal parts. I perched on a plump cushion of downy grass and watched the show – a dramatic display of rumbling waves, churning currents and seething white froth that surged up as each wave receded. Although each collision was intense, every so often a particularly furious wave thumped the rocks, sending vast plumes of water skywards. Backed as always by the wailing gulls and squealing oystercatchers, it was a feast for all the senses.

Time was pressing on. Conscious that I didn’t want to miss the only boat back to St Mary’s, I hugged the coast and followed the beaten track down the western stretch of Bryher. Red Ruby Devon cattle watched me cautiously, blinking with big bottomless eyes. Before long I reached Rushy Bay, and the sun was shining beautifully. I ate my lunch on the sand, which as always on Scilly was golden and impeccably clean.

Replenished, I began the search for what I’d come here to find: the dwarf pansy. With flowers 4-8mm long, I braced myself for a challenge. During my research I’d learned that a good spot on Bryher was “the sandy turf behind Rushy Bay”, which at the time had seemed a doddle. How much sandy turf could there be? I thought, quite deluded. True, the area wasn’t vast, but when you were looking for a flower that could fit several times on your fingernail, the sandy turf seemed to expand tenfold. I’d found the true meaning of “needle in a haystack”.

Wondering why I’d chosen to torture myself, I began to scour the ground, peering between thick grasses for a glimpse of violet. I found plenty of insects; sandy brown spiders that skittered in and out of sight (small enough not to trigger my panic response luckily), black beetles I couldn’t hope to identify and plenty of ladybirds sitting prettily. No such luck with pansies, though. Soon my knees and back began to ache so I tried my luck on Heathy Hill, another good spot for dwarf pansies and orange birdsfoot, a rare member of the pea family I was also hoping to find.

On the way, I stopped to admire the daisies. Interestingly, these common white flowers used to be known as “day’s eye” because they opened during the sunlight hours and closed at night like blinking eyes, but this soon morphed into daisies. By chance, my gaze wandered to a minuscule flower with purple petals that I could barely make out with the naked eye. In a slightly embarrassing lapse of composure I felt tears of joy prick the backs of my eyes, but I remembered that there were a lot of tiny flowers on Scilly. Due to the poor, acidic soil, often only small species could survive here. I knew I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It may not be my prized pansy, but I still lay sprawled on the floor photographing it for a good long while. Just in case.

I headed further west towards Heathy Hill. Here I found a rather large cluster of blue-violet blooms and once again I was stumped. What if these were dwarf pansies and I hadn’t made full use of the opportunity? So, even though the petals looked a little large, I spent another twenty minutes rolling around in the grass getting very atmospheric photos of what could have been Scilly’s most common wildflower.

Back on St Mary’s that evening, at a wildlife talk at the village hall, I consulted Scilly naturalist Will Wagstaff about my finds. The second species I had found was dog violet, so not even a pansy sadly, but he couldn’t identify the first flower I found, which was quite intriguing.

Arriving on Scilly

April 18, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

To truly comprehend how isolated and tucked away the Isles of Scilly are, you have to get there. My travelling began at 4:30am, and after using four modes of transport I arrived on St Mary’s at 1pm. It was a complicated and fiddly excursion but when I finally arrived, eating chips overlooking a vast expanse of ocean, I knew I was really at the edge of Britain.

Passionate gusts of wind blew the smells of salt and seaweed off the coast. The air was alive with birds. If I closed my eyes it was the same as home – wrens belting out their embellished trills, blackbirds speeding underfoot with shrieks of alarm – but as I was watching a dunnock I heard something that I thought at first to be a great tit, but the two syllables were the same pitch. Then, confirming my suspicions, a tiny brown, featureless bird appeared. My first chiffchaff in the flesh.

Later in the day I was struck with another bout of stress and worry. What if the flowers I wanted to photograph weren’t there? What if it rained every day this week? And as I stewed in paranoia I got a sign. I normally pulled faces at signs but this had to be something of an existential signal. As the sun went down the sky was alight with rich colour so I took my camera and headed down to the beach – only about twenty paces from the flat – and started taking photos of the foliage silhouetted against the sky. The sun sank so quickly that in minutes it had completely disappeared, but it was one of the most stunning sunsets I’d seen in months. There were other people taking photos too, and I heard one woman say “This is the best I’ve seen so far this year.” I arrived on Scilly this afternoon, and the day ended with a sky like that. I still felt apprehensive about this week, but my worry was also mixed with a little more optimism than before.

Minimalism in Photography

April 3, 2018April 2, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Recently I discovered a photographer called Petros Koublis during research for my photography project. In preparation for my upcoming trip to the Isles of Scilly, I was exploring the theme of isolation, as on Scilly geographical isolation has resulted in extraordinary diversity of both flora and fauna. So, I want my images to convey this seclusion without the subjects looking barren. When I found Koublis’s work I thought how beautifully minimalist the images were, and yet still varied and intriguing. The beauty was its simplicity.

So I set out and tried to capture my own images where the subject looked isolated but was still thriving. Inspired by Koublis’s minimalistic approach, I concentrated on simple colours, repeating shapes and uncluttered compositions. Using my 60mm macro lens, I de-cluttered the frame even more and filled it with my subject while washing out any detail in the background.

I almost always zoom in as tight as I can, especially when doing macro photography. There is a great urge to make your subject as large and detailed as possible, but often I’ve found that this removes all context from the image and it loses some impact. While it’s always nice to have a little mystery in photography, revealing a few secrets can bring even more magic to an image. For example, the lichen on the twig below was only a few centimetres in diameter, but with nothing to compare it to, all scale is lost. Now the image has been taken, the lichen could be any size and the challenge of getting such a tiny plane of detail in focus doesn’t seem as significant. Although the texture is still intriguing, the presence of something more familiar could only have added to the effect.

So on another trip out I began to step back. Although I couldn’t achieve the same crisp detail with more distance between myself and the subject, I could begin to introduce context and place the subject into a scene. An isolated section of this terracotta brick could have been taken in a garden or even at a construction site, but with the border of dry pebbles and the blurred suggestion of ocean, the subject is put in a time and place. As all photography is subjective, those with a fine art approach might say context isn’t necessary, but I like the way this image is clearly of the coast but it isn’t conventional in its composition or choice of focus. It suggests the theme more subtly. Also, the absence of any other noticeable features conveys the isolation I’m interested in showing, and shallow depth of field draws the eye immediately to the subject.

I’ve always been interested in shapes and lines in photography. Although perhaps a beginner’s cliche, a leading line is undeniably pleasing to look at. Here, the point of focus is the very centre of the image, with the tide line leading the viewer directly to it. It is loosely symmetrical, a technique I like to use to show balance and calmness in a scene. Here, there are two clear halves; one is almost completely lacking in detail except thin lines of movement from the tide, and the other has extensive detail. To emphasise this contrast even further, I desaturated the right half so even colour was absent from the water. I never excessively manipulate my photos as I like to replicate the true scene as much as I can, but subtle changes like this (when the colour of the water was almost grey anyway) can draw attention away from certain aspects in the frame to others.

My Scilly expedition is fast approaching. I can’t wait to see what opportunities arise during my week’s stay on such a diverse archipelago. I think practice shoots like these will help broaden my creativity in preparation for a whole new environment.

Burghead: Day Three

September 8, 2017September 4, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

On our last day, we drove out of Burghead into Hopeman, a nearby seaside village. Once again, the sun was shining and the sky was almost cloudless, coating the sand in a shimmering golden glow. Jas couldn’t contain herself, and pulled eagerly on the lead to get down to the seafront.

I began snapping immediately. The beach was a patchwork of fine, flat sand and weed-coated rocks where puddles of seawater were trapped from returning to the ocean until the tide swelled again. Kerr and I began to wander – rock pooling is one of those timeless summer activities that nobody is ever too old for. We stepped slowly from one rock to the next. A combination of slick seaweed and soft moss made me take extra care; although it was a beautifully warm day, I feared a dip in this water would still be a chilly one.

Another reason to watch your feet was the abundance of common limpets (Patella vulgata) clamped firmly to the rocks. We kept an eye out for any crabs lurking in the shadows, but perhaps the day was too hot for them. However, there were plenty of hollowed-out crab shells and discarded legs; remains of somebody’s breakfast no doubt.

There were also several rusty red spherical bodies with tiny tentacles tucked up tight. After a little research I discovered that they were beadlet anemones (Actinia equina), an extremely territorial anemone that nudges and attacks rivals with stinging cells that act like harpoons, injecting the unfortunate neighbour with venom to clear them off their patch. Baby beadlet anemones are kept in the parents’ body cavity – which conveniently serves as both mouth and anus – and when they are ready to be born, the parents eject them through the water, where they find a rock to make their home.

After a long time spent gazing into the pools and wondering what else could be lurking just out of sight, we joined the frantic game of fetch that was in full swing back on the beach. I couldn’t resist an opportunity to test my reflexes and see if I could photograph the fluffy torpedo in any mighty poses. I captured some absolute corkers but this was by far the best. Never has a dog loved the beach more than at this moment.

Burghead: Day One

September 1, 2017August 31, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

The drive to Burghead was beautiful. As the town is situated on the edge of a peninsula protruding into the Moray Firth, it is surrounded by open ocean on three sides. As we drove up the high street it felt like we were at the edge of the world, and in a way we were. Northern Scotland could just be seen in the distance, but the space between still seemed vast. When we couldn’t drive any further, we found the cottage my parents were staying in and were greeted by a very happy Cockapoo who’d missed us both.

I woke the next morning to see that the orange blinds were framed by a border of bright white light, and when I peeked behind them there lay the ocean, twinkling enticingly. After a hasty shower and breakfast we were off, keen to explore.

We made a beeline for the coast, climbing up to the highest point to take in the views. Down below, oystercatchers zoomed past, their alarmed cries cutting through the wind. A pair of cormorants glided effortlessly by, slender necks held parallel to the choppy waves below. I kept my binoculars trained on the horizon for a sign of dorsal fins breaking the surface. The Moray Firth is home to a resident population of more than 140 bottlenose dolphins, but we didn’t spot any stood up on the crag today.

Once the wind had completely numbed our ears, we made our way back down and walked along the harbour, where a mix of tattered old and shining new boats stood resting in the docks. Down on the shingle bank, a pied wagtail hopped from rock to rock, waving his tail in the typical fashion of his species. We stumbled across a collection of crab claws and shells sprinkled across the concrete – perhaps a favoured feeding station for gulls and other seabirds.

At the far end of the harbour I had another look for dolphins, with no luck. Every time a wave broke and a plume of froth shot upwards my heart leapt, but it was just the ocean playing tricks. The water was a stunning colour; azure blue and bottle green blending like marbled ink. Together with the rough rocks spotted with white barnacles, the sight was a feast for the eyes.

A combination of the walk and the sea air had brought on an appetite, so we headed back to Main Street for some lunch. A beautifully fresh crab linguine filled the spot, but I still had room for a raspberry ripple waffle cone to lick on the walk back. We’d planned to wander down to the sand to find crabs or maybe starfish, but just at that moment the clouds grumbled and it began to pour, so we hurried back to the cottage instead. Shut inside, all there was to do was have a look at the photos from today and plan where to go tomorrow.

Nairn Trip Away

July 6, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

With my second year of university done and dusted, I was really looking forward to celebrating the start of summer by doing very little. When Kerr had a few days off in a row, we decided to head up to his parents’ house in Nairn, a quaint seaside town in the Highlands of Scotland. I can’t get enough of Scotland; if Kerr and I aren’t spending a day out in Edinburgh, we’re on a mini holiday with his parents.

The journey was five hours from Carlisle and we arrived in the early hours, so after a long sleep in a marshmallow bed we headed into town for some supplies. Kerr tracked down a bakery, so we bought lunch and ate it looking out to sea. As I tucked into my Highland bridie I was faced with the challenge of consuming the delicious flaky pastry as quickly as I could whilst not burning my tongue. Thanks to the coastal breeze I got more hair in my mouth than bridie, but it was so good to be by the sea again. Far too cold for a dip, but it was lovely enough just to watch the choppy waves and hear the gulls bickering over leftovers.

CO0A0631 — “Hey, take a casual photo of me looking natural.”

We spent the rest of the day destroying the third season of American Horror Story – introducing loved ones to your favourite TV shows is one of life’s greatest pleasures. After a quite formidable tray of chilli beef nachos for dinner, we headed back out for a walk along the seafront. It was past 9pm but the sun was still setting, with diluted orange splashes amongst the blue. All kinds of prints were peppered in the sand; big boots, smaller boots, dogs and the scratchy lined prints of birds.

Kerr told me to run out to the stretch of sand not yet submerged by the approaching tide and he’d take my photo. I foolishly did as he said, and struck my most nonchalant pose as I gazed out to sea. Suddenly my Vans were wet and I looked down to find my route back to dry land had shrunk significantly. I had no choice but to sprint back before I got trapped on all sides by freezing cold seawater. The photo looked great though, so the hair-raising stunt had been worthwhile.

Thanks to the lovely Kerr McNicoll for the photos in this post. You can see more of his beautiful photography on his website: http://www.crosssectionindustries.co.uk/

Carna – Day Four

June 14, 2016March 10, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

Species seen:

Barn Owl – Tyto alba
Bladder-wrack – Fucus vesiculosus
Butterfish – Pholis gunnellus
Chaffinch – Fringilla coelebs
Common Blenny – Lipophrys pholis
Common Hermit crab – Pagurus bernhardus
Common Pipistrelle – Pipistrellus pipistrellus
Common Sandpiper – Actitis hypoleucos
Common Tern – Sterna hirundo
Eurasian Otter – Lutra lutra
Eurasian Rock Pipit – Anthus petrosus
Flat-wrack – Fucus spiralis
Grey Heron – Ardea cinerea
Hare’s Tail – Lagurus ovatus
Hooded Crow – Corvus cornix
Knotted-wrack – Ascophyllum nodosum
Lesser Redpoll – Acanthis cabaret
Saw-wrack – Fucus serratus
Sea-mat – Victorella pavida
Serpulid worm – Serpulidae
Shore crab – Carcinus maenas
Small winkle – Littorina littorea
Song Thrush – Turdus philomelos
White-Tailed Eagle – Haliaeetus albicilla
Willow Warbler – Phylloscopus trochilus
Wren – Troglodytes troglodytes
(Cuckoo – Cuculus canorus)
(Robin – Erithacus rubecula)

We were woken at the tender hour of 5am this morning for a wander through the dew-soaked grass. Tiny droplets clung to the hare’s tail and made them look like teasels instead of their usual fluffy tops. There was a fine mist rolling over the hills which looked beautiful with the weak sunlight shining through. We spent some time listening to birdsong and trying to untangle the many different voices. Cain described the descending tone of the willow warbler and the drilling call of the lesser redpoll. I would love to improve my knowledge of birdsong; it’s at the very centre of the morning routine for all wildlife.

After a break we began the scramble up Crachan Chárna, the tallest hill on Carna standing 170m tall. Once again the sun was shining, which we certainly shouldn’t be ungrateful for, but the heat made the climb just that little bit more challenging. Luckily the path up was well trodden, so we didn’t have to battle through knee high bracken or wade through too many sodden swamps.

Partway up we came across a muddy puddle stuffed with grey and black feathers, clearly the scene of a crime. Cain explained how he knew the culprit was a bird not a mammal. When foxes feed they chew the feathers off the carcass, splintering the feather shafts. Birds of prey pluck the feathers so leave them relatively undamaged. It was then a case of determining the exact species; this involved identifying the prey. When viewed in direct sunlight the black feathers glimmered, the dark green sheen of a shag. The size of this bird meant the predator had to be an eagle; a buzzard wouldn’t have the size over seabirds such as shags. It was so interesting deducing what happened based on the evidence; I’m noticing so much more now I’ve got some field knowledge.

In less than half an hour we’d reached the summit, only stumbling a handful of times. After we’d caught our breath we could fully appreciate the beauty of the island. For miles in every direction sprawled the surrounding isles, smaller patches of rocky terrain jutting out of the loch and the open sea to the west. We spent a long time at the summit, eating lunch and twisting and turning to see every view. Common terns swept overhead, turning into the wind and flapping furiously. Far down below a heron stood poised, neck braced to strike. After enjoying some lunch we made our slow descent back to the ground.

In the afternoon we spent time exploring the coast outside the house. While the tide was out we could forage the seaweed to our heart’s content. I discovered many different species including bladder wrack, sea mat and flat-wrack. In addition we saw many creatures beneath the weed-choked rocks such as edible winkles, barnacles and shore crabs. As well as this we saw butterfish, common blennies, whelks and starfish. We all lay on our fronts on the pontoon and watched a common hermit crab creep along the lakebed.

A species in the mollusc family, specifically *Nudibranchia*

Later, once the sun had finally set, we headed out to see if we could pick up any bat calls on the detector. We could determine the species by what frequency their call was recorded at. After only a short walk the detector picked up a series of clicking calls at 45Hz, and sure enough a tiny black bullet shot through the night, leathery wings beating the air. Once we’d consulted the identification key we discovered that the common pipistrelle was picked up at 45Hz, so concluded that this was the bat we’d found.

We wandered on and picked up another common pipistrelle further down the path, then suddenly Verity noticed a flash of white above and we all celebrated in hushed tones as the barn owl swept over our heads. By now it was late so we headed back to the house, pleased we’d got the opportunity to use such great tracking equipment.