A Seabird Safari

Wildlife thrives where people and their impact is minimised. So, arguably, the best wildlife in the UK is found offshore on remote islands where the wildlife can flourish in peace and quiet away from the threats of mainland UK.

Here, there are few, if any ground predators as most are kept rat-free, providing perfect nesting sites for seabirds. Dog walkers are scarce, if all present and footfall is low and considerate with visitors generally present to appreciate the wildlife and with its conservation in mind.

So, to sample the best of what our nation offers regarding offshore wildlife, it’s necessary to take to the water to access these remote locations. Search around and you find a plethora of tours and cruises which island-hop around our coast but dig a bit deeper, and often these are limited in where they can berth, restricted by the sheer size of the vessel. But, if you have access to a zodiac, this all changes and immediately, sandy beaches and rocky outcrops become an option for grappling your way onto isolated outcrops and so choosing the trip and vessel carefully is critical.  The stern of the MV Greg Mortimer is adorned with a stack of zodiacs ready to whisk guests off to locations inaccessible by the ship herself and it is the first expedition passenger ship to use the X-Bow technology offering a reduced impact and slamming loads when encountering challenging sea conditions, making for a very smooth ride on board. For these reasons, I chose to set sail aboard her on the “Jewels of Coastal UK” trip, ready for a wildlife extravaganza.

My favourite places in the UK are all offshore “jewels” - windswept and remote landscapes where the wildlife can just “get on with it”. Our family holidays often include a visit to the Channel islands, Western Isles of Scotland or some remote gem, so a trip itinerary encompassing some of the premier islands stops on the South, West and North of the UK was a dream come true.  Islands including some of my all-time Top Ten: Isles of Scilly, Lundy, Skomer, Grassholm, Anglesey, Isle of Man, Islay, Iona, Staffa, St. Kilda, Papa Westray and Fair Isle. 

On board, other guests were wildlife enthusiasts from all corners of the globe, some were first-timers to the UK and I was able to re-visit many favourite sites and species through new eyes: those of people who had never witnessed some of these before. To those from the US and Australia, even a glimpse of a cheeky red-breasted robin or a dancing dipper was novel and I marvelled in the excitement and anticipation each new sighting brought us. But, the draw of the sea bird colonies fuelled our energy about the trip and the promise of a huge range and number of seabirds on the visual menu every day of our trip from one of the smallest and certainly most charismatic, to our largest.

Lundy Island was the first opportunity for such a colony and it just happens to be one of my favourite islands around our coast.  Designated a Marine Protected Area just over 50 years ago, Lundy’s location is the key to its diverse and unique wildlife.  Lying 18km off the north Devon coast, with the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Bristol Channel to the east, it hosts a number of rarely seen Mediterranean–Atlantic species.

As a wildlife-watching destination, it’s up there with the big hitters with A-list species on and offshore.  Annually, I scuba dive here with the super-friendly grey seal population and pods of common dolphins, which are frequently spotted in the surrounding waters.  Resident bird species include Shag, Peregrine, Rock Pipit, and Raven and these are joined in the spring by breeding visitors that include Oystercatcher, Skylark, Swallow and Wheatear. But the greatest spectacle is from April to late July, when the nesting seabirds arrive, including Razorbills, Guillemots, Fulmars, a small number of Puffins, and, following the eradication of rats, growing numbers of Manx Shearwaters. 

Landing in a low and heavy cloud, few of these species were expected to be spotted through the pea soup mist that surrounded us, as we trudged our way along sodden paths, barely being able to see even the resident ponies a few metres ahead.  Our chances of seeing much were slim but as the hours passed, the cloud lifted and we had brief glimpses of the seabirds in the distance which whet our appetites for the coming destinations.

In the days that followed, the weather improved and so did the wildlife sightings.  Skomer was just around the corner, just off the Pembrokeshire coast, and this is an island which has never failed to deliver in terms of wildlife, even on the wettest day.  For me, the approach is always wondrous, the sky begins to fill with birds all heading to and from the island, becoming more numerous like a massive avian crescendo until you pull into the cove to anchor up.

Of all the birds we were expecting to see, there was clearly one species which everyone on board wanted to cross off their list - the charismatic clown of the sea: the puffin.  Skomer is famous for its huge puffin colonies which pepper many parts of the island.  It was here that I held my first puffin; crouched uncomfortably on the damp grass with one foot sinking into a long-abandoned rabbit burrow.  I was involved in some research attaching small geolocators to the puffin’s legs to find out where they went after leaving the safety of this island.  Puffins are faithful to their partners and their burrows and so the same pair can be tracked year after year as, even though they might fly their separate ways after leaving, they will return to mate with the same bird and nest in the same burrow the following year.  

It’s another favourite place of mine with many, magical memories, despite the scars left by the resistant bird I was trying to monitor.  They have sharp bill and claws for burrowing which makes life tricky for researchers who spend amen months here every year tracking these birds and their long and varied migration paths.  Skomer is also special because it was in the clear, sheltered waters of Martin’s Haven, where the Dale Princess leaves the mainland for the short crossing over to Skomer,  that I had my first open water dive in the UK.  Having learnt to scuba dive at university, this was where I plunged beneath the salty waves of our coast for the very first time, feeling very alien as I breathed air under the seawater, marvelling at the incredible diversity of marine life harboured in these clear, blue waters.

Years later, I swam in the sheltered easterly cove with hundreds of rafting puffins, eager to see them in and under the water to appreciate the adaptations of a bird that looks so ungainly on land but can swim and even “fly” underwater with such grace. And it was this bay that we now approached, dotted with rafting birds, bobbing around on the glistening water, gathering in numbers for safety before heading off to their burrows on dry land.

On land, Skomer offers the opportunity of standing just a few metres away from the puffin colonies but almost better than this is to be on the water looking up at the colony - like a high-rise towering over you. Our captain deftly manoeuvred us around the island to the best spots where you can appreciate the myriad comings and goings of the many thousands of birds that make it their home.  It is an immersive experience surrounded by all the squawks and calls, the crashing waves, the smell of guano and the sea spray. For me, it embodies the pure and raw wonder of nature. 

On deck, straining through binoculars, you get a real sense of life on the edge - the frantic flapping of wings as the smaller birds dodge the marauding black-backed gulls, prey firmly held in their beaks, hurrying to make it home to their awaiting offspring.   And some don’t make it - hounded by the predatory gulls, they are chased and forced to spill their bounty, only to see it hoovered up by the hungry harassers.  As the months go by, fledgling pufflings will also be on the menu for these unforgiving predators.

Pembrokeshire is blessed with several islands of note for seabirds. Not far away, and almost close enough to smell is the sheer majesty of the gannetry on Grassholm. The name comes from the Norse word for “Green island” but it is no longer green;  over the years the thousands of Northern gannets that nest here every year have repainted it white and now it is home to 39,000 breeding pairs, around 10% of the world’s population.  The island comes alive in early spring with the arrival of these huge birds, returning to the island to mate and lay their single eggs. As you approach, everywhere you look, there are gannets dive bombing left, right and centre.

Gannets have one of the most spectacular prey-capture behaviours of all marine predators, plummeting from up to 30 m into the water, where they seize fish with their razor-sharp beaks. at speeds of up to 100km/h. It is believed they have sub-cutaneous cushioning to prevent death and serious injury when impacting the water. Plunge-diving is a specialised hunting tactic used by some avian predators to and they further enhance this by flapping their wings underwater to gain additional depth. You could spend hours marvelling at their aerial acrobats, which is exactly what we did!

Over lunch, a notification from my news feed popped up on my phone.  New research had been released about gannets from Bass Rock which was hit hard by avian flu. Individuals had been spotted with black irises instead of the usual pale blue and blood samples from 18 apparently healthy birds, when tested for antibodies for bird flu (indicating previous infection) 8 tested positive and 7 of these had black irises.  I forwarded this to one of our guides and then the chatter on board started.  One of the guests had taken a picture of a bird with black irises and we started to talk about the impact of bird flu and how devastating it had been on the gannet population.  It felt quite exciting to be witnessing this moment of evolution and resistance, first-hand.

Gannets may be our largest sea bird with their impressive 2m wingspan, but it was definitely the more diminutive puffins that most of the guests were still eager to see face to face. As our journey headed north towards the west coast of Scotland, the chances of a close-up encounter felt that much more possible.  I don’t quite know what it is about puffins, but they certainly draw in the crowds and people will travel far and wide to see them.   

Staffa was to offer us the best and most memorable puffin encounters. Home to the famous Fingals’ cave, it’s a place I’ve longed to visit for many years.  The cave was immortalised in Mendelssohn’s famous Hebridean Overture and I had its haunting melody echoing in my ears as we approached the huge hexagonal basalt columns that frame its entrance.  The whole island, formed from lava, looms high out of the water and the approach is quite threatening, especially in choppy conditions.

From a distance, and with a good pair of binoculars, we could see the puffins flying to and from a small area on the cliffs.  With the wind picking up, there were mixed discussions on board as to the feasibility of landing on the island. 

Some guests decided to remain on board but I was itching just to get close to those birds I could see in the distance and so, for me, there was no option but to board the awaiting zodiac and head to the island.  It wasn't a bad crossing but we knew our time on Staffa would be limited by the weather.  The old landing stage was slippery and the climb was steep up to the top of the island.  Tip-toeing our way along the footpath (a stray step from a hiking boot can demolish a fragile burrow dug a little too close to a designated trail), we made our way to the colony; an estimated 637 burrows are occupied here making our chances of photos and sightings very high.  

When you see your first puffin, your first reaction is normally to marvel at how small they are, but packed into that tiny body is a big personality. and a great deal of humour.  I hesitate to say it, but they’re funny - the way they stand, the way they move, the way they fly - pretty much everything about them.  You can see them countless times on a screen, but lying flat on your belly on the grass on a remote windswept island surrounded by these miniature birds is a truly unforgettable moment.  Watching them gives you that feeling a bit like when you first see a dolphin or an otter; they are guaranteed to make you smile. And that’s how the whole group was feeling at that moment in time. Up close and personal, we found ourselves in amongst the frenetic activity that is a puffin colony.  Camera shutters clicking, voices hushed and low, we just lay there, mesmerised by these characterful birds.

I’m not ashamed to say that they’re my favourite bird.  Being a former RSPB President, I wonder whether I ought to choose a more unusual species to champion, but I can’t help being drawn in by those dark eyes, amusing expression and extraordinarily colourful bill.  I chuckle when I see one waddling comically towards the old rabbit hole that it now calls home; and their call, mimicking Kenneth William’s nasal signature “awhh”, is totally unique, like a tiny chainsaw starting up.

As well as being amused by these birds, I am fascinated by them.  A little ungainly on land, it’s a different story underwater as they dive gracefully for fish to feed their growing chicks.  In the air, they aren’t exactly elegant, but their short wings, flapping somewhat frenetically at up to 400 times a minute, enable them to dodge their way past threats and hazards on their way into and out of the safety of their burrows

In countries where puffins come to breed, they are treated with reverence and are often embedded in the local folklore.  Their ability to endure severe winter storms at sea, means that they are often linked with the weather. In Iceland, for example, where over half the world’s Atlantic puffins come to breed,  the “lundi”  are regarded as expert weather forecasters, while Inuit and Alaskan native tribes thought puffins had the power to actually change weather patterns and ward off storms.

In the Faroe Islands, where they number around 500,000 pairs and you can even find puffin on the menu in some restaurants, they're known as prestur - meaning “priests”. This is a fitting name when you relate it to the way they walk on land, moving quite slowly, with their heads bowed.   In Irish folklore, puffins are affectionately regarded as the reincarnations of Celtic monks.  The word frater, Latin for ‘brother’ is also used to mean a friar, so the genus name of puffins (Fratercula) could be interpreted as ‘little brother’ or ‘little friar’ – aided by the puffin’s colouring and solemn demeanour.  This tiny birds have certainly captured the hearts of many people in the past and right now, they are doing the same to a small group of middle-aged tourists on the tiny island of Staffa.

Our last day included a stop off on Fair Isle where once more, the puffins stole the show.  This time, all the guests got onto the island as landing and transfers were made in the shelter of the bay.  Each and every one of us saw a puffin, sitting in the warm, late May sunshine, we were charmed by pairs of portly puffins displaying in amongst the short tufted grass that blanketed the headland.

As the ship sailed away from our last stop to where we disembarked in Aberdeen, I believe that there will be one bird which will remain in everyone’s memory: not the Northern gannets from Grassholm, the secretive fulmars on St Kilda, the magnificent Great Skuas on the Isle of Man, but the cheeky, quirky, colourful puffins on Staffa and Fair Isle that stole the show. 

Miranda was on board the 132-passenger Greg Mortimer ship, which was on a British Isles expedition cruise from Portsmouth to Aberdeen via Devon, Cornwall, Isles of Scilly, Pembrokeshire, and the Scottish Islands.