Looking Forward

January 11, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

I am very enthusiastic about 2019, mostly because I’m not quite sure what it will bring. All I know for sure is that it will feature lots of writing. For quite a few years now, writing has been predominantly a side-project for me. I’ve always loved it, but unfortunately it hasn’t been my sole focus because of school, work and other commitments.

I began writing stories at a very young age. My mum would give me a title and leave the rest to me. She was always keen for me to be creative – providing inspiration and encouragement in the form of spelling rhymes, handwriting exercises and story prompts. Writing stories always featured heavily in my childhood and adolescence, but when I became an adult it didn’t occur to me to pursue it professionally. I have no idea why I thought this – perhaps I was distracted by other things or was always keen to keep learning new skills, but the idea of writing stories stayed at the back of my mind until the end of last year when it finally clicked. After weeks of refreshing job site pages and filling out application forms, I realised what I’d probably known subconsciously for years: that I want to be an author.

Probably the thing holding me back from pursuing a career as an author was my lack of technical knowledge. I had the drive to write – a constantly growing stack of full notebooks was proof of that – but I hadn’t learnt the techniques of story structure or character development yet. At the time of picking my A Levels, I wanted to study Biology because of its connection to wildlife and the natural world, and Photography and Spanish were my definitive other choices. As a result, I didn’t have space for English, so a lot of my writing is self-taught, from books I read and prompts I found for myself.

To learn more about the mechanics of writing – in particular writing novels – I recently enrolled in Masterclass: a series of online courses taught by experts in their fields. Gordon Ramsay teaches cooking, Serena Williams teaches tennis, and groundbreaking authors such as Margaret Attwood and James Patterson teach creative writing. It seemed like the perfect solution for me – learning and making notes at my own pace. I already had the passion to be an author, and now I’m using Masterclass to learn the tools that will help me develop my abilities further.

Alongside Masterclass, I’m making sure to continue my photography. For Christmas, I was given a “lensball”. For anyone who hasn’t seen these before, they are clear glass balls that can be used in photography to add a little refraction to the scene. I’m no expert yet, but if you align your camera so it’s level with the lensball, you can photograph the background within the ball, which brings some nifty new perspectives.

I tried out some shots in the garden earlier this week and discovered that it’s not as easy as it looks. You need to get the angle just right and – as always with macro photography – the focal point is key. These initial shots need a lot of improvement, but I already love what effects I can achieve with the lensball. Gardens don’t usually have the most groundbreaking scenery, so I’m looking forward to getting out in the wild to see what I can capture.

So, the aftermath of university didn’t quite go as I may have planned, but I feel so optimistic about where this year will take me. I want to give myself the time I need to throw myself into writing and stretch my skills further. I can’t wait to see where I will be this time next year.

The Greenway

September 10, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

The Egan’s Greenway is an unexpected jungle in the middle of smoke-belching industry and deckchair tourism. The mundane sounds of traffic are deafened by the furious chatter of cicadas – enormous insects that seem prehistoric. Their strange call is like the sound of angry water sprinklers, growing louder and faster until it reaches an alarming tempo, then abruptly stops.

At first light the Greenway is sharply divided into light and dark. The dense, impenetrable forests are still cool – the trees in muted greens – but out on the marsh the grass is alight with fiery golds and oranges. Naked trees poke the sky with sharp limbs white as bone, while beside them sway lush evergreens. It is a land of stark contrast, a spectrum of vitality and decay. Time passes here with the tick of the cicadas.

The day warms up, throwing a shimmer onto the surface of the creek. Here there be dragons, some cruising between reeds on transparent wings, others scrambling up trees with long claws. A flash of movement and then a disappearing act, they blend seamlessly into their surroundings. Just a flick of the beady eye will give them away, and then they will shoot off into the undergrowth.

Other beasts can be found higher up. Perched on the skeleton fingers are ospreys, scanning the creek in every direction. One takes to the air and its mate follows. Together they wheel in deep circles, overlapping in smooth figures of eight. A wood stork, large enough to be unfazed by the raptors, joins their sky with dark wings barely flapping.

Then, a real dinosaur. A creature that survived what forty-metre sauropods could not, almost unchanged for millions of years. This one is only small, an arm’s length perhaps, but even so it floats beneath the water’s surface with the stealth of an adult, startling green eyes always watching. A glance away and back again and it has disappeared, moving across the creek without a sound.

Where is mum? Perhaps it is best not to stay and find out.

The Farne Islands – Part 2

June 12, 2018June 9, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

After sharing the waves with a herd of very curious seals, it was now time to get changed on a boat with thirty other people. This was a challenge, especially as getting a wet wetsuit off required the flexibility and strength of a contortionist. I teamed up with another girl to make a temporary changing cubicle, which made it somewhat easier.

Once everyone was back in dry clothes, the boat headed to Staple Island for a spot of birdwatching. On the approach, all we could see and hear was guillemots, a blanket of birds completely covering the rock. People were dotted amongst them but vastly outnumbered. It was the kind of ratio I liked to see.

On dry land, it was impossible to decide where to start. I was used to choosing a spot to sit and wait for the wildlife to appear. Here, we had joined a metropolis of seabirds all going about their business without blinking an eye at what we were doing. Red posts were stuck into the ground at places, and as we passed I notice each one signalled the presence of a nest, some situated almost on top of the path that threaded through. Shags watched nonchalantly as we passed, eyes half closed.

Some of the guillemots looked different to others. While most had completely brown heads, a select few had bright white rings around their eyes. I asked Cain, who told me they were bridled guillemots. Back at home I looked them up, and discovered that these individuals are an example of dimorphism. Usually relating to variety in plumage colour, dimorphism is the existence of two distinct forms within a single species. This is different from two subspecies, as both guillemots and bridled guillemots have the same Latin binomial: Uria aalge. Were they subspecies, they would have an additional subspecies name. Furthermore, subspecies tend to be permanently geographically isolated from one another.

After watching the guillemots for a while, I found where the puffin clique spent their time. Away from the larger birds, there were countless burrows in the grassy banks, and after a while puffins would pop into view or land and duck inside, sometimes carrying large mouthfuls of sandeels in their vibrant bills.

I had been so excited to see my first puffins on the Isles of Scilly, and while I still treasured the memories, those had been distant sightings compared to now. Here on the Farnes, puffins sat twenty feet from two-tiered photographers, lying on the rock or glancing from side to side with their sad clown eyes. They were a joy to watch, and so much smaller than people think!

Sadly, the time flew by and before I knew it I was back on the boat and leaving Staple Island behind. When we arrived into Seahouses, I caught the irresistible smell of fresh doughnuts on the breeze. Tired after the swim, I made a beeline for the van and bought a bag to sit and eat on the bay. A group of very tame eider ducks approached, eyeing my bag with enthusiasm. Unfortunately for them, I wasn’t sharing my doughnuts with anyone, but I did make use of the opportunity to photograph the beauties so close.

I was thrilled to see ducklings accompanying some of the females, perhaps one of the cutest baby animals there is. As the females lowered their bills into puddles of seawater, the ducklings copied, mirroring the adults’ every move. Watching such intimate family behaviour while I devoured my doughnuts was a perfect way to end such a dramatic and unforgettable day at sea.

The Farne Islands – Part 1

June 9, 2018October 6, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Our trip to the Farne Islands was looking like it would be a day of unforgettable wildlife encounters. We boarded the boat at Seahouses kitted out in wetsuits, boots, hoods and clutching snorkels in gloved hands. The clouds were light in colour and I had faith that the sun would soon break out.

En route to the boat (Photo: Cain Scrimgeour)

There was a buzz of excited conversation as we moved out into open water, scanning the surface for wildlife. Cain, sharp-eyed as always, spotted the first puffin, as well as razorbill, guillemot, and a Manx shearwater. I twisted in my seat to spot everything he pointed out, but as usual, I was perplexed how Cain could identify such small, distant birds with immediate certainty. I could easily see the gannets though, a group of four that glided low over the water past the boat. I’ve said it many times before, but gannets are one of the best birds out there, and I never tire of watching them.

Before long we reached a widespread rocky outcrop where the boat would stop and let us jump out into the sea. One by one, we pulled on fins and adjusted facemasks. When it was my turn, I waddled ungainly to the back of the boat and took a somewhat hesitant jump off.

Taking the plunge! (Photo: Cain Scrimgeour)

Cold water hit me like a fist and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I was filled with a very unfamiliar panic that I’d never felt in water before. I was lifted back onto the boat and it was then that the skipper told me my over-sized hood had risen up over my mouth and my mask had filled with water. Feeling very sheepish, I calmed my breathing and tried again. My second attempt was more successful, but I was very unaccustomed to wearing fins when swimming. They were two dead weights on my feet that pulled my legs to the surface and completely threw off my balance. Having only ever worn a swimming costume in the ocean before, it now took real effort to get used to all this additional kit.

I glanced up and saw another of our group bobbing up and down in the water, but then I looked properly and saw it was in fact a grey seal. I experienced a combination of surprise and elation, and when I looked around I realised I was surrounded. Seals were everywhere, gazing with inquisitive expressions. One ducked under the water so I copied, watching it glide out of the kelp with an astonishing grace that it didn’t bring with it onto land. Water seeped into my mask again, and once I’d tightened it and put my face back under, there was a jellyfish right in front of me. I’d seen dead ones on the beach, but to see a live jellyfish propelling itself effortlessly through the water was truly beautiful.

I reached the rocks and rested for a while, watching the snorkels of other students in every direction. Suddenly another seal appeared, an arm’s length away. It flared its nostrils and snorted, staring directly at me, then ducked underwater. Once again, I followed its direction and watched with amazement as it brushed against me. Then, it held out his flippers and wrapped them around my leg. It was a surreal and incredible experience, feeling a wild grey seal squeeze my leg in what the anthropomorphist in me liked to think was a hug. It was nothing like it of course, but the seal reminded me of an excited puppy, and even nibbled my wetsuit like my dog would do. Before long it swam away and disappeared into the gloom, and I was left feeling ecstatic. Any encounter with a wild animal in its natural habitat was special, but to me it was even more exciting to share a completely new world with one, a world I never normally got the chance to be a part of.

As much as I hated to admit it, my hands were beginning to grow numb, so I waved to the skipper and got back on the boat. As I warmed up, I felt niggles of regret that I hadn’t tried to film my encounter on the GoPro I’d brought with me. But as I reflected on what had happened beneath the surface, I was glad that I hadn’t. In that moment I hadn’t been distracted by technology; I’d simply been there.

A Biotope Weekend

May 24, 2018March 10, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

Friday

The trains to Glasgow and Largs and the ferry to the Isle of Cumbrae were all fine. It was when I boarded the bus to the Millport Field Centre that it dawned on me: what on earth had I let myself in for?! I’d booked onto a weekend course run by the Field Studies Council called ‘Marine Species and Habitats: The Biotope Approach’. After volunteering at an aquarium had sparked a new fascination for marine wildlife, I wanted to learn more about what could be found on British shores. I’d done a bit of research using the course’s suggested reading list, and had half an idea what a biotope was, but as I dragged my bags off the bus I wondered if I’d booked myself onto something that would sail completely over my head. I imagined working alongside a team of marine biologists with decades of experience in the field, and here I was with a newborn interest in fish. I was suddenly terrified, and literally marooned on an island for the weekend.

As I was mulling this over in my head, a girl my age carrying a black hold-all asked me if I was attending the Biotopes course. I was thrilled; fate had brought us together on the same ferry and meant I didn’t have to amble around alone wondering where I needed to be. Our rooms weren’t ready yet so we went for a wander towards the town of Millport. Her name was Abbie, and she was currently part-way through a PhD in non-native seaweeds. This was something I knew literally nothing about, but we chatted about uni and wildlife and all things in between. Meanwhile, it was a chance to see where we’d be spending the weekend, and it was beautiful. Of course, almost everywhere is beautiful in bright sunlight, but even so the Isle of Cumbrae promised a fascinating chance to survey marine wildlife.

A well camouflaged Sand Goby *(Pomatoschistus minutus)*

After a loop around the bay we headed back to the Field Centre and took our bags to our rooms. I had feared with some trepidation what the washing facilities would be like, but was very pleasantly surprised to discover a large ensuite shower, not to mention a bed like a cloud. I hastily unpacked then met the rest of the group for our first briefing. Here I met Emily who worked at the Lancashire Wildlife Trust, and before dinner Abbie and I went for a walk with her to the shore to soak up the last sun of the day.

Dinner was macaroni cheese and apple crumble, perhaps one of the most perfect combinations of courses there can be. Then it was time for our first lecture: an introduction to biotopes. My research had prepared me well – a biotope is the combination of a physical habitat and the biological community found living there. Although some of the lecture’s content was lost on me, I left feeling inspired and ready to face new challenges over the weekend. I’d already met lovely people, and all my earlier worries began to feel very insignificant.

Saturday

Today began early, and by 9am we were down on the beach beginning our first biotope survey. It was a beautiful day for it, and we wasted no time getting stuck in, in my case literally getting my wellies wedged in rock crevices and clinging desperately to my balance. Common species included beadlet anemones, dog whelks and acorn barnacles, but we also found common starfish, hermit crabs, a star ascidian (type of sea squirt) and plenty of seaweed. My knowledge of seaweed species was even smaller than my knowledge of seashore vertebrates, but as Abbie was doing her PhD on them I had a source of very valuable information.

**Star Ascidian** *(Botryllus schlosseri)*

**Common Brittlestar** upside down *(Ophiothrix fragilis)*

Once we’d covered as much of the bay as we could we ate lunch out in the sun (an excuse for some of the group to catch up with the goings on at the royal wedding) and then headed back to analyse our results and try to determine which biotopes we’d found. This was also an opportunity to play with lab equipment, which I haven’t been able to do since A Level Biology. I had good look at the bryozoa I’d found on a strand of seaweed (below). Bryozoa means “moss animal” and viewed up close reveals an intricate lattice of animals situated closely together. I studied these individuals for a while but couldn’t decide between Sea Mat or Hairy Sea Mat.

A cluster of bryozoa: either **Sea Mat** *(Membranipora membranacea)* or **Hairy Sea Mat** *(Electra pilosa)*

After beating the queue and getting served dinner almost first, I went back to my room for much-needed downtime before bed.

Sunday 20th

Today was another early start, and this time we drove the short distance to the northern end of Great Cumbrae to a much larger site. The weather was a little dreary but armed with quadrats, transects and clipboards we began to survey the biotopes. Findings started off slowly but once we reached the rock pools things really got exciting. Our course leader Paula found a slug species called a sea lemon – a very pretty blob – and a butterfish. Abbie, Alex and I found a sand goby, sand mason worm, lots of brittlestars, more hermits and beadlets, and my favourite from today: a dahlia anemone. It was the largest anemone I’d seen before, and had beautiful striated and brightly coloured tentacles that slowly emerged again once we’d calmed down to watch it properly. Just as I was squatting to try and get a decent picture, two common prawns appeared underneath a nearby rock. I didn’t know if maybe these were boring sightings but I recognised them from my volunteering at the aquarium so was thrilled to be able to confidently identify something in the field.

Back at the lab, Abbie got to work identifying her seaweeds and Alex had an ID test to do for his assignment, so I had a bash at identifying today’s biotopes by myself. Once I’d done that, I realised I’d accidentally brought a tiny brittlestar home with my sea urchin shells. With Paula’s help, I identified it as Amphipholis squamata. Later, Paula asked us what we’d found, and Alex and I had got the exact same biotopes! I was so pleased with myself.

Dinner was Sunday roast and sticky toffee pudding. I must have put on about eight stone this weekend – I’ve been fed like a queen and although my brain has been working overtime, my body hasn’t done so much. After dinner we had our last round-up lecture and went to the bar for drinks. I ended up talking to the two guys from Belfast about Father Ted – it was pretty funny talking to Irishmen about it. I would have stayed longer but I was absolutely shattered. So I headed to bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

Farewell to Scilly

May 13, 2018May 3, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

For my last full day on Scilly I was back on St Agnes again, joining a group led by Will Wagstaff on a full day of exploring. Although the weather was still far from bad, today was the murkiest I’d had so far. The sun was well and truly concealed behind thick cloud, and without its warmth the wind blowing off the sea cut through my jacket and made me very grateful I’d decided to bring a jumper this time.

While most of the visitors from the boat headed towards Gugh before the sand bar closed up later in the afternoon, we went the other way, hoping to find more wildlife than people. Before long we heard the sound of a chiffchaff in the bushes, followed by a song thrush and the customary wren. We stopped at Big Pool and watched a pair of shelducks. Both male and female have beautiful and striking plumage, making camouflage on the nest impossible. To counter this, shelducks are often found nesting in burrows out of sight of predators.

Just as Will was explaining this, one of the visitors interrupted with an exclamation of “redstart!” I’d never seen a redstart, so I was keen to find where the bird was spotted. There, perched proudly on the fence, was a beautiful male; black face, burnt copper breast and a smoky blue back. It was a stunning bird, but as usual didn’t stay still for long.

After a loop of the pool we wandered through Lower Town, a tiny street with a post office and a sprinkling of houses. We passed another grove of elm trees, and I asked Will if the ivy – which was also covering these trees – had a detrimental effect on them. To my surprise he said no, and in fact ivy was an essential part of the ecosystem, providing shelter for birds, insects and small mammals. While ivy should be removed from buildings, its presence on trees was of little concern. I was pleased; having survived Dutch elm disease it would be a shame to then lose Scilly’s elms to the ivy.

We crossed the beach looking out over Beady Pool and noticed that the sand bar to Gugh was closing fast. At this angle, you could really see how flat the beach was, and Will told us how people had underestimated the tide and had gotten trapped on Gugh in the past. The ocean was a force to be reckoned with, especially out here when the land was so low-lying and water inundation was an ever-present risk.

We threaded our way through vast forests of gorse, a bittersweet combination of harsh brambles and delicate yellow blooms. A herd of Ruby Red cattle grazed nearby, mooing into the otherwise silent landscape. The sharp-eyed visitor who’d spotted the redstart alerted our attention to another bird that was perhaps even more special: a woodchat shrike. Admittedly, I’d never heard of the bird before. It was an annual vagrant to Britain from southern Europe, usually seen here from April to October. A bird is considered vagrant if it strays far from its wintering, breeding or migrating grounds. The shrike was perched quite far off, but I could still make out striking black, white and russet plumage. I managed to get some shaky photos of the bird while it remained stationary; although they won’t win any awards, they were proof we saw it.

The afternoon was racing on. The sun had failed to emerge so up on exposed Wingletang Down we all felt distinctly chilly. Incidentally, there was a café just up the hill, overlooking St Warna’s Cove. While we warmed up with hot chocolate we watched a few fulmars resting on the rocks. Unlike most gulls, fulmars don’t walk well on land, so if not flying the birds are always seen lying on rocks instead of perched on their feet. We all had a look down Will’s telescope, and saw there were distinct pairs set out on the rock. Fulmars, like many other birds, are monogamous and will mate with the same individual throughout their lives.

After we’d warmed up a little it was time to make our way back across St Agnes to the quay. We passed Porth Killier again, which looked vastly different now the tide had swelled. Will spotted a curlew sleeping with its characteristic bill tucked under its wing, and just as we reached the track down to the quay we saw a wheatear posing on the stonewall. We’d amassed quite an extensive bird list during the day, including several I’d never heard of let alone seen. It was always exciting ticking new species off the list, and on my last day in the Isles of Scilly I’d made lots of progress.

Success!

April 30, 2018March 10, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

I was back on Bryher today, having another go at finding the elusive dwarf pansy. As was becoming a daily ritual, I engaged in friendly conversation with my fellow passengers on the Seahorse as it made its leisurely way out of St Mary’s Quay.

“That’s a fancy bit of kit you’ve got there,” one man said, gesturing at the camera hanging from my neck, “What are you hoping to photograph?”

I told them about my mission to find the dwarf pansy, to which the man said, “Ah yes, such a shame about the flowers this year.”

I supposed he was referring to the recent snowfall, which had pushed the growth and emergence of the Scilly wildflowers back a few weeks. Still, I didn’t like his pessimism and although I smiled politely I was feeling confident. The weather had been and still was beautiful, and I was here to find the dwarf pansy. So when the boat docked and I hopped onto dry land I strode towards Rushy Bay with steely confidence. The sun was already beating down and incidentally I would later regret not covering my sore, red ears from that beating sun. Meanwhile, I was on my hands and knees peering at grass and getting some very strange looks from passers-by. I found my tiny purple flower from last visit, which I vowed to ask the tour guide about on my walk that afternoon.

By lunchtime my stomach was rumbling, so I tucked into my sandwiches and rested my sore knees. It really was a stunning day, and I had the beach almost to myself. A couple of holidaymakers were foraging for shells by the water, and every so often a dog appeared with a wide-eyed expression of sheer joy before loping back over the dunes.

I decided to give the area one more scope before it was time to walk back to the quay and meet the tour group. Just behind the high grass was a group of binocular-glad walkers huddled together gazing at something on the ground. My heart leapt into my mouth and I hovered awkwardly where I was standing. Was it cheeky to go over and exploit their find? I hadn’t paid for their walk, after all.

But this was the dwarf pansy, so I made a beeline and gazed between shoulders to see Will Wagstaff pointing at a tiny white speck in the grass. I waited as patiently as I could, hopping from one foot to the other, for the group to take their turns photographing the pansy. Once they’d dispersed, I lay down on the grass and noticed there were two! One was fully open, the other was partially closed but still beautiful; in fact, it was a real stroke of luck to see two different stages beside each other.

The Red Ruby cattle mooed at me as I lay there, trying countless angles and focuses. A man and his son approached me and asked what I was doing. In moments we were talking about the pansy, my uni work, and he was amazed that I’d come all this way for a flower. After he’d moved off another couple appeared from Heathy Hill, and once again I showed them what I was so captivated by. Like all the others, they responded with the courteous “oh really?” and “wow!” but I could tell they weren’t nearly as excited as I was. I wanted to shake them and say they were not found anywhere else in the UK, only this tiny archipelago! I had to share my joy with someone who’d appreciate just how special the sighting was.

So, as I hurried back to the quay, now nearly late for the walk, I rang my parents and wheezed my good news. They’d shared my worry and calmed my panics on the run-up to the expedition so were thrilled that I’d found what I came for. I was beaming ear to ear.

Once I got to the meeting place and Darren, the guide from the Isles of Scilly Wildlife Trust, told us our route, I realised we weren’t even going through Rushy Bay, so I would have missed the pansy completely! I was hesitant to call it fate, but if I hadn’t eaten my lunch where I did, I’d have been journeying back to St Mary’s very disappointed.

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.