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.

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

So, to sample the best of what our nation offers regarding offshore wildlife, it’s necessary to take to the water. Search around and you'll find a plethora of tours and cruises that island-hop around our coast but dig a bit deeper. Vessels are often these are limited in where they can berth in such remote locations but access to a zodiac (rigid inflatable) changes everything. 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 remote locations. Greg Mortimer was the first expedition passenger ship to use X-Bow technology (an inverted bow) which is more fuel efficient and reduces the "slamming" load in challenging sea conditions. For these reasons, I chose to set sail aboard her on the line's “Jewels of Coastal UK” itinerary and prepared myself for a wildlife extravaganza.

My favourite places in the UK are all offshore “jewels” - windswept and remote landscapes where the wildlife just gets on with it. Our family holidays often include a visit to the Channel Islands or the Western Isles of Scotland, so a trip encompassing some of the premier island stops in the south, west and north of the UK was a dream come true.  Many of these, including the Isles of Scilly, Lundy, Skomer, Grassholm, Anglesey, the Isle of Man, Islay, Iona, Staffa, St. Kilda, Papa Westray and Fair Isle were on my all-time favourites list.

On board, passengers were wildlife enthusiasts from all corners of the globe, including some 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 a novelty and I marvelled at the excitement and anticipation each new sighting brought us.

But it was the draw of the sea bird colonies and the promise of a huge range and number of seabirds on the daily visual menu, from one of the smallest and certainly the most charismatic to the largest, that fuelled our enthusiasm.

Lundy Island was the first opportunity for such a colony and it happens to be one of my favourite islands around our coast. Designated a Marine Protected Area just over 50 years ago, and managed by the Landmark Trust, Lundy’s location is key to its diverse and unique wildlife. Lying 12 miles off the north Devon coast, with the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Bristol Channel to the east, it hosts several rarely seen Mediterranean–Atlantic species.

As a wildlife-watching destination, it’s up there with the big hitters with A-list species both on and offshore. Annually, I scuba dive here with the friendly grey seal population and pods of common dolphins, which are frequently spotted in the surrounding waters. Resident bird species include the shag, peregrine, rock pipit and raven and these are joined in the spring by breeding visitors that include the oystercatcher, skylark, swallow and wheatear.

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 low and heavy clouds, 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 able to see even the resident ponies a few metres ahead, I thought our chances of seeing much were slim. Gradually, as the hours passed, the cloud lifted and we caught brief glimpses of 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 around the corner, off the Pembrokeshire coast, and this is an island that has never failed to deliver in terms of wildlife, even on the wettest day. For me, the approach is always wondrous, as the sky begins to fill with birds all heading to and from the island, like a massive avian crescendo until you pull into a cove to drop anchor.

Of all the birds we were expecting to see there was one species that 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 so the same pair can be tracked year after year. 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.  

I have many magical memories of Skomer despite the scars left by the resistant bird I was trying to monitor during one particular visit. They have sharp bills and claws for burrowing which makes life tricky for researchers who spend months here tracking these birds on their long and varied migration paths.

Skomer is also special because it lies in the clear, sheltered waters of Martin’s Haven, where the Dale Princess leaves the mainland for the short crossing over to the island. It was here that I had my first open-water dive in the UK. Having learnt to scuba dive at university, this was where I first plunged beneath the salty waves of our coast, "breathing" under the seawater while 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. 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. Almost better than this is to be on the water looking up at the colony - which looms above like a high-rise tower. Our captain deftly manoeuvred us around the island to the best spots so that we could 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 62 mph. 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 and they further enhance this by flapping their wings underwater to gain additional depth. You could spend hours marvelling at their aerial acrobatics, 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 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 the more diminutive puffins that most of the guests were still eager to see face to face. As our ship 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 from 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 to get close to those birds I could see in the distance and so, for me, there was no option but to board the zodiac. 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 to the top of the island was steep. 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 the chances of photos and sightings 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 is 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 felt at that moment in time.

Up close and personal, we found ourselves amongst the frenetic activity that is a puffin colony. Camera shutters clicking, voices hushed and low, we 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 expressions and extraordinarily colourful bills. 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 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 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 “priest”. 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. These birds have certainly captured the hearts of many 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, puffins stole the show. This time, all of the ship's passengers got onto the island, as both landing and transfers were made in the shelter of the bay. Every one of us saw a puffin, sitting in the warm, late May sunshine and we were charmed by pairs of portly puffins displaying amongst the short tufted grass that blanketed the headland.

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 or the magnificent great skuas on the Isle of Man but the cheeky, colourful puffins on Staffa and Fair Isle.