My gannet teacher

Portsmouth, on the south coast of England, is not the best scene setter for an expedition cruise. Still, like many other embarkation ports, its transport links, easy berthing and dedicated passenger terminal make it an ideal starting point. So, as with many expeditions dating back hundreds of years, the aesthetics of the sailaway backdrop becomes far less important than the logistics.

But as the sun descended and our purpose-built high-tech expedition ship, The Greg Mortimer, silently slipped out of Portsmouth harbour, everything looked serene and beautiful, even the jarring juxtaposition of the giant military ships and cruise liners with HMS Victory, the world's oldest naval vessel still in commission, with 246 years of ‘technical’ service.

This exit passage from Portsmouth harbour was basked in a golden but temperamental haze and marked the start of an early summer adventure. The weather, a typical blend of the meeting of British seasons, hinted at the need for a winter (and waterproof) coat. The passenger mix was eclectic and broad; if presented as a pie chart it would have been three equal wedges: Australians, Americans, and Europeans (including us British).

The ship’s itinerary was exciting for me personally, with ports that included Fowey in Cornwall, Tresco, and its botanical feast that thrives in the Abbey Gardens on the subtropical Isles of Scilly, and, most importantly for me, Lundy Island in the Bristol Channel. Lundy was a place I had explored in-depth as a child with my late father; it was an island with no cars, few humans and exceptional wildlife. It does have its own brewery, though!

There was a specific reason that I wanted to visit Lundy Island, and that was for those stupidly beautiful and kooky auks that thrive on its cragged and heavily exposed rock cliffs: the puffins. I say ‘auks’ now, but back then (last May), they were just colourful birds I had seen many times in advertising, fired onto crockery, and printed on tea towels and postcards in Cornish gift shops. I had never seen these birds first-hand as a child, and it had become a steely determination to do so in adulthood.

The puffin is one of those rockstar birds that has broken through the obscure and overlooked fraternity into the mainstream, with peers like the toucan, red and green macaw, emperor and king penguins and bald eagle. These are not just birds you are more likely to see on greeting cards than on your travels; they are also iconic birding symbols and must-see specimens. But the puffins were not destined to be the birding stars on this trip.

Lundy was beautiful. The ship was berthed cinematically in the bay, and the zodiacs played tender for the day, landing us on the only quay on the Island. The weather was cool, with a light spray of moisture hanging in the air, which was refreshing. By now, the passengers had split into three groups: hikers, culture vultures, and birders; all these groups had been well-organised on the ship the previous day and long before heading out on the zodiacs. Each group was led by an expedition guide knowledgeable about the group’s focus. And whilst my calling would normally be to hike, those colourful auks were too compelling, so I joined the birding group. And there, a new fascination and awakening would occur.

The birding group was made up mainly of members of a North American travel company that organises trips focusing purely on… yep, birding. This particular group happened to be on the same British Isles expedition as me, and their passion and focus were infectious. They had a deep interest in birds and a delicate approach to observing them, matched by a warm and inclusive sense of community and belonging. They were welcoming and fascinating; I was intrigued and joined them.

We saw Lundy’s puffins, which was a real thrill for me, but good-quality binoculars were required to observe them, perched and busy on the Westerly bird cliffs, facing the full force of the Atlantic. They shared the cliffs with guillemots and razorbills, making them hard to spot from a distance. Even those flashes of colour darting around often turned out to be oystercatchers, which were also birds I had never seen before. For me, that day's learning and conclusion was more about an embryonic interest in all sea birds rather than a focus on one. And this would develop as we headed back to sea.

On holiday in Cornwall one year, my daughter daydreamed of seeing a wild dolphin. Humans have a natural and meaningful connection with dolphins and, more widely, the entire family of cetaceans. Seeing them is a genuine thrill. Thankfully, they are moving away from captivity, and encounters now require travel, usually by boat or small ship. My daughter had never seen one, so we joined a small boat tour from Padstow in the hope of doing so.

We were not disappointed. As the skipper announced the usual disclaimer, “We don’t mention the ‘D’ word as we can’t guarantee any sightings”, my daughter slumped in her seat. Still, within minutes, we saw fish thrashing at the ocean surface ahead, and seconds later, the magical spectacle of our first dolphin breaching and then slipping gracefully back into the big blue.

The dolphins were gorgeous, plentiful and life-affirming, and my daughter cried, but a lonely gannet above diverted my attention from the dolphin pod. Why? Because I had never seen one before, and it was absolutely beautiful. And by 'lonely', I am not commenting on the bird's social status, merely that it was very much alone in the ultramarine Cornish skies. 

The dolphins performed exceptionally, with no aquarium in sight, and we and our fellow passengers sat in awe of these otherworldly creatures, with their beaky sentience on full display. We affectionately named them 'The Beaky Blinders', but I had remained fixated on that splendid seabird. The gannet had piercing blue eyes, a yellow tint to the neck so striking that it looked air-brushed, and spectacular polar-white plumage with black-brown wing tips (they looked like they had been dipped in coffee). It was also a big bird, which I have since learned can have a wingspan reaching up to two metres (6.5 feet), making it the largest seabird in the UK. This was a bird I knew nothing about. But the holiday ended and the dolphins were the take-home highlight for the family.

Having departed Lundy the previous evening our expedition ship made for the the Pembrokeshire Islands in Wales. The expedition leader (or EL) awoke us around 7am and advised that no landings would be possible due to adverse weather conditions, which we all accepted and understood. It is a thing you quickly learn on ships that need to tender passengers, but more so on expedition vessels. You never know what the next day will hold.

While you may look out from your cabin and see calm seas and sunny skies, that has no bearing on swells, tides, or the ability to access zodiacs or land them ashore. The alternative activity for the day would be to cruise as close as possible to Grassholm Island. Grassholm is uninhabited and lies 8 miles off the southwestern coast of Wales; it is also a gannet utopia, or at least it was before avian flu arrived. I didn’t know this then; I knew very little about avian flu, so I was on deck with most other passengers, observing the island from a distance and listening to the expedition team and guides for a narrative.

We had been told that the island is home to a very large colony of northern gannets, estimated at around 39,000 breeding pairs, making it a healthy percentage of the entire global population. Sadly, however, according to the RSPB (The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds), up to 5,000 had been lost in 2022 alone due to avian flu.

The second news item from RSPB was a little more remarkable. One of the expert guests onboard was TV broadcaster Miranda Krestovnikoff, who was, by chance, the former president of the RSPB (and ExplorEarth writer), and she had told us in passing about some fascinating and very relevant research recently published by the RSPB.

Scientists had just discovered evidence that northern gannets can recover from avian flu, and that an unusual black iris colouration indicates a previous infection. I pondered whether this made a black iris the ultimate battle scar and wondered how they (the scientists) established the theory. Science truly is a remarkable thing that touches our lives in many different ways, and quite often on expedition cruises.

At this point, we were on deck, very close to the shore (thanks to the Captain and crew), with thousands of raucously squawking (a gak-gak-gak sound) northern gannets. These calls help them communicate with their colony and defend their nests within densely populated breeding grounds. They are also hauntingly beautiful sounds in which you can get fully immersed. But now I was thinking solely of that talisman of hope and emblem of survival, the black-irised gannet. Could that really be a thing?

I had some good binoculars, an okay camera, and a zoom lens (70-300mm), but I had no real hope of looking into the eye of a gannet like some avian optometrist, especially when it was flying at speed in the distance.

One of my favourite elements of an expedition cruise is the after-dinner de-brief. This is the time when the ships’ passengers (or expeditioners as you are now called) will gather with the expedition team and guides to review the day’s activities and to hear about the next day's plan.

This gathering has a very egalitarian feel, where questions and suggestions are welcomed, lectures are often delivered, and the day's highlights are shared. After a fascinating lecture on British sea birds and mammals, the ship’s expedition team photographer (also a renowned travel writer), Jamie Lafferty, joined the stage and initiated the presentation system. The newer expedition ships generally have excellent media equipment.

The first picture that flashed up was a gannet. It was a harsh reminder of the state of our oceans, with a shred of plastic waste clearly visible in the bird's beak. The gannet should have been gathering organic matter for its nest, not some discarded and man-made jetsam. However, there was still a beauty in the image: the clarity of the ice-blue eye, the brilliant white plumage with a subtle dusting of yellow and the ink-tipped wings gliding gently through the salty air.

This was followed with a new image; this time, the bird was holding what appeared to be seaweed in its beak, and you felt the audience take a quick sigh of relief. This was the correct cargo for our gannets and it seemed that not all their nests would be draped in plastic!

We gasped in unison at the final photo. Not only for the sheer close-up of the image itself, but the eye in the picture, which was clearly discoloured. As we had found out on the same day, through just-released scientific research delivered by the former president of the society, we were all looking at a northern gannet that had recovered from avian flu and was back with its colony circling the windswept bird cliffs of the remote island of Grassholm.

Just last week, I was fortunate enough to return to the English Channel on an expedition ship, and as we sailed past the Island of Alderney and headed towards a historical landmark called 'The Gannets', I immediately recognised that raucously beautiful sound again. ‘Gak-gak-gak’. We saw no black irises or plastic waste this time, but plenty of seaweed and brilliant blue eyes. I’ll take that.

Being in the presence of northern gannets profoundly reminded me of the delicate balance of our marine ecosystems and the urgent need to protect them. These birds face huge challenges from climate change, overfishing, and pollution, directly threatening their food sources and nesting sites. Observing these birds in their natural habitat underscores the importance of preserving the biodiversity and health of our oceans, which is why I would highly recommend visiting such colonies on a responsible expedition ship. 

Science and birds are amazing, and my Gannet teacher has shown me this with those darkened eyes that flashed with hope.