Harbour Happenings

March 9, 2021 | Rebecca Gibson

Last week on one of my many coastal walks I glanced down to see a pair of fulmars perched on an earthy shelf on the headland. Fulmars are one of my favourite seabirds so I was delighted that there was a possible mating pair setting up shop on my daily walking route. They were cackling to each other and looking like adorable mini albatrosses. I got a couple of shots but the light was fading so I decided to return when I had a little more sun.

The next day I wandered back to the spot but they were gone, perhaps on a fishing trip or maybe they’d decided on another nesting spot. Not wanting to waste the trip out, I scanned the water for dolphins and birds. Just at the mouth of the harbour was a group of dots too small for herring gulls. On closer inspection through the binos I discovered they were long tailed ducks – another favourite of mine!

I hurried down from the headland and made a hasty loop around the harbour, peeping over the wall to see where they’d got to. I’d never seen more than a pair together before, and now I was out of the wind I realised they were making an absolute racket! There was a single female among all the males and she was flapping her wings and whipping the males into a frenzy. All the while a constant stream of three-note quack calls overlapped each other as the males jostled and squabbled around this one female.

The long tailed ducks near me are usually shy little cuties, but today there really was something in the water. By the looks of the female’s upturned bill and the twinkle in her eye it seemed as though she was egging the boys on! Well, we all need to let our hair down every now and then, and at least the long tails are allowed to have a party right now…

Elsewhere in the harbour there was more activity. Up until very recently the only redshanks I’d seen were far out and nearly impossible to photograph without the risk of breaking my leg on the slippy rocks – something I actually saw happen last year! I noticed a gathering of both redshanks and turnstones hanging out on top of the sea wall. Knowing they could be skittish, I stayed still and watched.

After a while another redshank popped up from behind the wall, surprising both me and the gang already stood on the edge. There was a great flurry of wings and I had the camera pointed at just the right spot to capture the near collision!

My intention had been to look for fulmars and I’d nearly headed in the other direction to walk further along the coast path, but after such a dramatic (and noisy) display I was relieved I’d stayed where I was! I love those surprises in nature.

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.

A Day at Sea

May 4, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Like almost every other visitor to the Isles of Scilly, I had my sights set on puffins during my stay, not to mention razorbill, guillemot and perhaps a seal or two. I’d planned on joining the afternoon Sea Safari around Annet, known as the bird sanctuary island, and the Western Rocks.

I wandered down to St Mary’s Quay to check it was going ahead and saw there was a trip to Annet in the morning too. I stood at the harbour and pondered what to do. The weather didn’t look promising – the looming clouds threatened to burst at any moment. So, somewhat recklessly, I bought a ticket for the morning trip and boarded the Sea King. As St Mary’s drifted slowly out of view, I hoped I’d made the right decision.

By the time we reached St Agnes the sun was doing its best to break through. As we headed out towards Annet, our guide pointed out the rock called the Cow, a smaller rock named the Calf beside it. When the tide came up, the Calf disappeared completely, only emphasising the fact that boatmen on Scilly needed their wits about them when navigating such challenging waters. Shags were perched on the Cow with wings held wide. The structure of their wings reduced buoyancy, which made it easier for the birds to chase fish underwater. As a result of this adaptation, however, their feathers were not truly water-repellent, so they needed to hold them up to dry them. Although, I doubted these shags would have much luck drying them in the current temperature. Perhaps it was for another reason; spread-wing postures aid digestion. Birds that adopt this position have low metabolic rates and high rates of heat loss. By positioning themselves with their backs to the sun, shags could increase the rate of thermoregulation, absorbing solar energy to increase their metabolic rate.

Lesser black-backed and great black-backed gulls wheeled overhead, mouths open as they wailed at us. I had my binoculars scanning the rocks and nearby surf for a glimpse of vibrant, toucan-like beaks and droopy, clown eyes. The skipper slowed the boat suddenly and I sat up straight – a sure sign he’d seen something. A pair of great northern divers cruised into view when a wave subsided – beautiful grey birds not yet in their summer plumage. The divers, as a group, were extremely glamorous, with sleek heads and slender necks and bills.

A while after our divers had swum further away, I suddenly found myself looking at my first puffins. Two of them, perhaps a breeding pair. Down the binoculars, all concept of scale was warped, and it was impossible to see how small they were – just 12 inches tall! After a few moments they took to the air and, flapping rather ungainly, they gathered enough momentum to carry them off across the water. I was thrilled.

Leaving Annet behind, we moved into choppier water, the boat swaying beneath us as it negotiated unsteady waves. I was reminded again of how wild and isolated Scilly was, and it was this seclusion that protected and enhanced its flora and fauna. It was an island paradise.

A razorbill – a member of the puffin family – flew into view, wings beating rapidly either side of a stout, monochrome body. It wheeled in a wide circle, zooming back around the boat and away again; a bird’s second glance, too quick to photograph.

Just before it was time to turn back, a vast herd of forty grey seals appeared, some sprawled across the rocks and others bobbing in the water, long dog-like noses pointing in our direction. There were a range of ages, with some of the seals still sporting very lightly coloured coats and juvenile, inquisitive expressions. They continued to gaze after us until the rocks obscured us from their view, and the skipper took us back to St Agnes.

Once we had all disembarked from the Sea King, it wasn’t long before the Spirit of St Agnes had taken its place, ready to take more eager birdwatchers out to sea. I decided that I rarely had the opportunity to go looking for puffins, so I bought a ticket and left dry land again, excited to be back out on open water.

Amongst the blue-green waves were the white outlines of gannets, looking like swans of the sea with their slender necks and stocky bodies. Britain’s largest seabird, with a formidable wingspan of six feet; not only did they have beautiful plumage and facial markings, but they were truly built for a life at sea. Gannets can dive into the ocean from heights of 40 metres, hitting the water at speeds of almost 60mph. To withstand the pressure of such a dive, gannets have “airbags” that protect their organs on impact. They also breathe through slits, situated where the upper mandible meets the head, which are covered by flaps of hard tissue that prevent water from entering them.

These gannets weren’t diving, but they were soaring low over the boat, providing beautiful photo opportunities. It was always a challenge trying to focus a fully extended 400mm lens on a rocking boat, but I kept the camera as steady as possible and followed the birds as they glided majestically overhead.

The last bird to make an appearance was a special one; the Manx shearwater. Belonging to the order Procellariiformes along with albatrosses, these birds can live for some sixty years. They only produce one egg a year, so are highly susceptible to predation by rats. To combat this, the Isles of Scilly Seabird Recovery Project was established to eradicate rats from St Agnes, as it was suspected that they could swim the reasonably short distance to Annet, where the Manx shearwater bred. The project was successful, St Agnes was declared rat-free and the birds are now breeding successfully. In 2015, a total of 28 Manxie chicks were seen to be fledging from St Agnes and Gugh. These birds only breed on Scilly and Lundy in the UK, emphasising the importance of protecting the Scillonian population.

Before long it was time to leave rugged Annet behind and return to (scarcely) populated St Agnes. Although we’d had Manxies and gannets on this trip, the puffins had eluded us. I spoke to the guide on the journey back and she said they didn’t like bright sunlight. As the clouds had shifted and it had turned into another beautiful day, the puffins were obviously finding shade elsewhere. Later, as I looked through my photos, I felt very fortunate to have gone down to the harbour earlier than planned.

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.