Goodbye to Skomer

After four and a half months, yesterday it was time for me to leave Skomer.  But my final day was a special one.  Walking through the garden, I glanced over to the wall by the water tank, to see a Wryneck crawling upwards, searching for ants - the first of the year on Skomer, and a beautifully patterned little bird, related to the woodpeckers.  The sightings didn't stop there.  I joined Dave and Aaron in a walk down to North Valley crossing, where at first few birds were in evidence.  But crossing the stream we looked back to see a warbler fluttering between the branches of the willow bushes.  Dave quickly identified it as a Greenish warbler; a smart bird with bright white underparts, a dark supercillium and white wing bars.  This was only the third ever seen on Skomer, and an individual a long way off course from its migration route between Scandinavia and South East Asia. 

It was a lovely day, with an autumnal edge to the air.  Swallows gathered, chattering on the roof of the cleaning store and whitethroats and sedge warblers flitting between the dried, brown fronds of bracken in the valleys.  Around the farm robins were singing; for the rest of the year they are almost completely absent from the island, and it seems strange to see them perched on the elder bushes, calling and arguing with each other.  Canada geese have been flying over in classic 'V' formation, calling to each other, and occasionally enagaging in playful acrobatics - we saw a group flipping upside down in the air, then flicking themselves upright again as they flew, something you would not think possible for such a big and apparently cumbersome bird.

In the afternoon I headed out to Pigstone Bay with Sarah to watch for porpoise and dolphins; sheltered from the wind close to a small outcrop we could scan the waves in comfort, enjoying the late summer sunshine, and the occasional sight of the dark backs and dorsal fins of the porpoises slipping through the sun-flecked waves.  It is a good viewing spot - to the north seals often 'bottle' (bobbing vertically in the water) in the inlet, and behind them gulls rest on the dark, slanting slabs of rock.  Grassholm lies on the horizon, with the needle thin tower of the Smalls lighthouse beyond, and from there the gannets fly out, circling where they find fish and spearing down into the water to make a catch.

Later I swam for the last time at North Haven, which echoes to the strange, drawn out calls of seals at this time of year.  I paused briefly in the sunshine under the cliffs of the Neck, where the fronds of Kelp form a carpet over the barnacle-encrusted rocks.  My final day ended with a group meal in North Haven; Dave cooked chilli, and Akiko made a great marbled coffee cake.  We finished the evening with a cup of tea under a clear sky packed with stars, the ghostly path of the Milky Way above us.  It does not seem so long since I arrived in mid April, but already my time on the island has come to an end.

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If you have enjoyed this blog, you might be interested in my book of life on the island, which describes the 2011 season on Skomer, with more details, photos and thoughts about the island and its amazing wildlife.  This will be published in spring next year, and I will post on this blog closer to the time with details.  The publisher is Brambley Books, and the title is 'A Skomer Diary' (title subject to slight alteration).  I will also try and put up some more photos from this year over the coming weeks.

Many thanks to all the 2012 team for another great season!

Below is the soundtrack to go with my last post about fledging Manxies - you can hear them sqsuabbling on my shoulders, climbing up over my coat and flapping their wings.  At the end a flock of Canada Geese fly over, calling to each other.

Fledging Manxies

Over the last couple of weeks, Manx shearwater chicks have been emerging from their burrows to fledge.  Their parents have mostly left the island, heading across the ocean to South America – the chicks are left to make the journey alone.  At around ten or eleven each night the young birds begin to appear, scrabbling their way towards any high ground, be it a rocky outcrop or an old wall from which they can launch themselves.  One of the most special island experiences is to sit amongst these birds, and last night I made my way out along the track, looking for a suitable spot.

The waning moon is still large enough to bathe the back of the island in its ethereal light, revealing the dark forms of bracken and rock out over the plateau.  I sat on a low, tumble down wall close to the track.  Several birds were close, and, keeping still, I was just another outcrop for them to scale. 

Soon, they were scrambling up onto my legs, holding out their wings for balance, their heads low as they pulled themselves up.  The first paused for a while, sometimes tapping or gently nibbling at my coat sleeves as it assessed its situation, then launching itself up towards my shoulder.  I leant back slightly to allow it to gain purchase, turning my head as it beat its long, slender wings, hitting me (fairly gently) in the face as it went by.  Up on my shoulder it turned with its head resting close to mine, tapped the arm of my glasses with its beak.  It was joined by a second bird, making the same journey upwards, and there was a loud squabble on my shoulders as the two tried to accommodate each other.  Eventually one jumped up onto my head – slightly painful as their claws are pretty sharp.  Both birds were still for a while, occasionally beating their wings, so that I could feel their weight decreasing and increasing as they flexed.  Eventually the first one made the leap, holding its height briefly before falling headlong amongst the bracken with a crash.  It would have to begin its journey again.

Another bird had made its way onto my legs, and sat in my lap, the soft, smooth feathers of its head and breast against my hand, and I could feel its quick heart beat as it rested.  Close up it slightly wheezed, stopping to catch its breath.  A flock of Canada geese flew overhead, calling to each other beneath the stars, and their heavy wing beats were audible in the night air.  On the ground too I could hear the fluttering of wings, and the crashes as more Manxies failed to take off.  But eventually they would get it right.  These birds, sitting so calmly on my shoulders, resting their heads against mine, will fly across the Atlantic – in three or four weeks they will have followed the air currents further than I have travelled in my life, down to the coast of Argentina.  Their lives so far, in a burrow on Skomer Island, will be like a pinprick next to the range of their experience.

Perhaps we have something to learn from them, as they struggle upwards, only to fall back to where they started – they try again and again, quietly, persistently, until their leap takes them out and up and they find their true potential, flying out over the sea in the moonlight.

 

Seals, ravens and the end of summer

Over the last few weeks the character of the island has changed.  With the exodus of many sea birds the coast and cliffs are strangely quiet – the guillemots, razorbills and puffins have long since left; now the kittiwakes and many fulmars have followed.  Out on the plateau the gull chicks have fledged, with just a few mottled brown stragglers stalking the paths, and the adults have dispersed from their colonies.  Walking over to Skomer head the low ‘cronking’ of the ravens is audible as these massive, heavy-billed birds fly acrobatically overhead, or stand broodingly on outcrops of rock, in apparently solemn consideration of the island.  Everywhere the bracken has been browned by the wind, chocolate dark in the rain, as if a fire has swept through the vegetation.  The only colour comes from splashes of yellow ragwort, and a few stands of purple loosestrife, crumpled and tired with age.  When it is dry, the seed heads of red campion rattle at the slightest touch and deep down amongst the tangle of plants the high pitched squeaking of shrews can be heard.

Much of the interest now is at sea – crossing Jack Sound on the Dale Princess yesterday Sarah spotted a sunfish – these can grow to two or three metres in length, and cruise close to the surface, one fin lazily waving above the water.  Many porpoise and common dolphins have been seen out in St Brides, gathering where the gannets circle and dive for shoals of fish, sometimes acrobatically bursting from the sea as they hunt or play.  There are many seals too, gathering on the beaches to pup, the cows watched over by large, territorial males which coral them close to the shore, waiting for their chance to mate (two weeks after pupping, the females are ready to breed again).

 

With Phil and Lewis, I joined Dave on one of his survey rounds.  Each year he records the breeding success of the seals, using spray paint to mark new pups, and then following them through to their first moult.  The job involves climbing precariously down to the secluded shingle beaches and dark caves where the pups lie amongst the rocks.  Some of the caves are deep, cutting in under the island in dark, sharp edged crevices with dripping walls, around which the sound of breakers on the shore outside echoes loudly.  Out at the far end of The Neck several of these caves have pierced right through a headland, forming The Lantern, named because of the shape of the mouth of the arch.  At low tide you can scramble into this high, narrow aperture, scrambling over mounded shingle and then wading deep through a pool left by the receding tide, to stand in the dark with a vault of rock high above, and tall windows of light from the cave mouths to the north, south and east.  We found a couple of seals there, lying on the pebbles in a dark recess, hissing and growling at our approach.  We left them alone – they had no pups with them – and as we left we heard them heavily lumbering over the shingle towards another exit.  They can move surprisingly fast despite their bulk, and it can be a little unnerving to hear their heavy advance without being able to see which way they are heading.

It is a windswept, cloud broken morning as I write, and before I settle down to a variety of computer based tasks I will head out to the coast to see what birds have been blown in from the sea and to look for cetaceans in the rough waters of St Brides Bay.

A weekend away

I have spent the last few days at the Cropredy folk festival, deep in the Oxfordshire countryside; a very different world to that of the rock and sea of Skomer Island - verdant in full summer, crowded with people and full of music (and ale!).  Some of my reflections, written on Friday while sitting in the sloping field overlooking the stage, are now on my creative writing page - you can check them out using the tabs at the top...Cheers!

The Olympics comes to Skomer Island

The cliffs of Skomer are a long way from London and the excitement of the Olympic games, but this week we put together our own Olympic celebration; the SkOlympics.  There were a mixture of events taking place through the week, from welly throwing to the round island race - a gruelling 6 km run around the Skomer coast.  The mid-week swimming event in North Haven held some unexpected thrills, with a large bull seal taking a close interest in the progress of the competitors (too close for comfort in some cases!).  In the end Bridget, one of the weeks volunteers, came out victorious, overcoming the tide and the wildlife to win by a big margin.

The last day of events yesterday looked in doubt for a while, as we struggled to put the obstacle race together in driving wind and rain.  Luckily things brightened up, and the egg and spoon race, tug of war and obstacle race provided a good deal of entertainment.  The tarpaulin obstacle was a unique challenge in the wind, but in the end everyone managed to find their way out!  I finished with a bronze, although I opted for forward rolls instead of cartwheels for the gymnastics section! With a much more elegant effort Annette got the silver, with Dan (on the island for the week as a volunteer) coming in to claim gold.

The day ended with a medal ceremony in the picnic shelter, and a BBQ prepared indoors as a result of the worsening weather; Dan won overall (by a large number of points), I finished with silver and Lewis with bronze.  So the Olympic spirit has not been absent from Skomer, and the backdrop of St Brides and the rugged beauty of the island have been a match for any state-of-the-art stadium in London!

A day trip to Skokholm

Today I had the chance to go over to Skokholm (the island to the south of Skomer) a place I last visited as a volunteer several years ago.  Chris was attending a meeting marking the handover of the lighthouse to the Wildlife Trust, and there was a spare space on the boat.  It was my first trip on the fast rib that carries sightseers around the islands; skimming the grey waves we sped through the swirling waters of Little Sound and away from the cliffs of Skomer.  To the north a yacht navigated her way between Skomer and the Mew Stone, and further out the Irish ferry made its stately progress towards Pembroke.   Quickly we drew close to Skokholm.  The rocks of the island are a mixture of warm pink sandstone and black basalt, and rounding its eastern tip the cliffs angle down into the sea in jagged shards, spectacular to see.

Skokholm is smaller than Skomer, similar to its larger neighbour to the extent that the centre is a plateau dominated by swathes of bracken and rocky outcrops, but very different in geology and vegetation.  Here Golden Rod is thick along the track from the landing point, close to flowering, and along the cliff tops swathes of Wild Pansy, in some places yellow, in others predominately blue, mix with scarlet pimpernel and sea campion.

I left the main group at the lighthouse discussing the finer points of the electrical circuitry, and headed out around the coast.  It was hot and sunny, and I was glad of a cool sea breeze as I skirted vertiginous cliffs of purple that dipped their feet in a turquoise sea.  I ate my lunch at a place where fulmars swept along the coast on their stiff grey wings, changing direction and pace with the slightest movement of their tail or wings.  Having plenty of time I drifted to sleep, listening to the calls of choughs that chased acrobatically overhead. 

Back at the farm at the centre of the island, where the warden, two volunteers and any overnight guests stay, I had a look around.  Compared to Skomer, Skokholm feels much more isolated, the facilities much more basic and traditional.  In the communal dining room (called ‘The Wheel House’) there are many prizes stripped from a grounded schooner many years ago (the crew having been safely evacuated); the whole place has a tranquil, homely feel.  In the sheltered garden willow warblers flitted around the walls and hid amongst the Fuschia bushes, and there was real heat from the sun.  All too soon it was time to return to the boat, setting off from South Haven, where huge seals basked, gleaming in the sun by the light-flecked water.

The sun reaches Skomer!

Summer has at last come to the island.  At North Haven, the sound of waves caressing the shingle beach drifts in through the library window with the cry of gulls and the throbbing motor of the Dale Princess, dropping off day visitors at the landing steps.  The sky is clear blue above, softened by high white cloud over the Presellis, and dissected by the sharp white forms of gannets circling out over St Brides.  The last week has passed quickly, with data to be input and paperwork to be sorted out; the guillemots and razorbills have left, and it is the time of year when my role becomes much more office based (and more relaxed in many ways!).  As we head towards August, the numbers of Common Dolphin and Harbour Porpoise in St Brides is rising.  On Saturday we sat by the Garland Stone in the morning sunshine, seeing perhaps thirty dolphins cruising close to the surface, weaving below the hunting gannets to find fish, sometimes exuberantly exploding upwards, sending shards of silver water fountaining.  There were porpoise too – smaller and more understated - and yesterday Ali saw a Sunfish, again close to the Garland Stone.

Moory Mere has been commandeered by large lesser black-backed gull chicks, which squabble and wash, or sit hunched on the shore of the pond, seeing off any other birds that have the temerity to approach.  While I watched yesterday a solitary juvenile moorhen, somewhat self-conscious, drifted at the edge of the water, seemingly suspicious of its over bearing (and potentially dangerous!) companions.

The calm, turquoise waters of North Haven are now more tempting for swimming than the steel grey seas that rolled below dark skies earlier in the season, and the puffins still raft under the lea of the cliffs (although their stays on land are becoming less frequent, their attention drawn back to the open ocean now that most of their chicks have fledged).

Chicks fledge and the ledges empty

With most of the guillemots and razorbills fledged, the cliffs are oddly quiet - empty rock where previously the birds were packed tightly, each in its familiar position.  However, around my viewing points on the Wick there is still much activity.  Though many puffin chicks have left, some adults still have large young to feed, and the others continue to gather on the cliff tops in the afternoon sun.  Without pufflings to attend to, they seem even more inquisitive than usual.  Yesterday I was interrupted in my viewing by a sudden delicate weight on my foot; a puffin stood on my boot, head on one side, hopped up my leg, and then, seeing that I was watching, turned and flew off quickly with the heavy, whirring flight of these auks, better adapted to swimming.

In the Kittiwake colonies large chicks are crammed into nests that now barely accommodate them.  When their wings have grown long enough I will survey them for a final time, to count those that have successfully reached fledging age; the trick is to visit when they are just large enough, but before they start flying away!

Yesterday I swam for the first time in several days; the sea was warm, but full of jellyfish.  At first it was disconcerting to push forward only for my hand or leg to brush against these soft, fleshy creatures, but I realised from a glance under water that they were moon jellyfish; a non-stinging variety.  I swam with my head down, through my goggles seeing the jellies pulsing their way through the murk with gentle contractions of their rounded bodies.  Their opaque forms seemed to glow in the shafts of sunlight from the world above, their gentle progress slipping them slowly past me in the turquoise, silent sea.

On the far side of the bay, where the puffins raft, one of the birds dived just ahead of me.  Ducking under quickly I saw it zig zagging powerfully downwards, silver bubbles of air streaming behind it, propelled by its powerful stubby wings - soon it disappeared into the haze below, and I was suddenly aware of the depth that I drifted above; it will seem strange when these birds have left the island again for the open ocean.

Puffin Chicks

On Wednesday I headed down to North Haven to help Dave, who has been catching and ringing puffin chicks over the last few days.  Many of the 'pufflings' are ready to fledge, and some have already left, flying from the cliff tops, over St Bride's Bay and away for a winter far out in the Atlantic - exactly where and how they spend the long months before they return again in April is unknown.  The catching method requires some skill, using a wire inserted deep into the long, twisting burrows to feel for and extract the chicks.  The birds are not harmed, and are quickly ringed and returned to the safety of their homes.

The first chick here is quite young; still downy, and a couple of weeks or so from leaving the nest.  He was the only chick I managed to catch!  The second picture (below) is of a chick with well-developed plumage, resembling an adult in all but facial and beak colour and probably ready to fledge.

Watching the jumplings - guillies and razorbills fledge at High Cliff

Night has fallen over the island, the last of the light draining away below streamers of dark cloud.  I have just got back to the farm, after spending the evening at High Cliff with Tom, Ali and Jasper, watching the guillemot and razorbill chicks jumping into the sea.  The offspring of both species leap flightless from their ledges (they are referred to as 'jumplings') bouncing down the rocks to the waves below.  We watched from the shoreline, close to rafts of adult birds waiting for their own chicks to take the plunge.  The female stays on the ledge to coax the reluctant chick to the edge of cliff, while the male calls from the water below; the still air was filled with the cheeping of the young, and the encouraging calls of their parents.

When the chicks jump, they fall fast, seemingly impervious to heavy knocks against the cliff face, some even emerging unscathed from falls onto the black basalt boulders that line the shore here.  We watched as, one after another, they hit the water with a splash, surfaced and raced out into the choppy grey expanse of the bay, adults leaving the main group to collect them.

At either end of the cliff, a Great Black Backed gull watched proceedings balefully.  Scanning the water, I returned my gaze to one of these two, to find it shaking a helpless chick in its heavy bill.  The gull took a long time over its meal, initially unable to swallow it, spending time softening it up, before tipping the improbably large morsel straight down its gullet, to sit with a huge lump in its throat for several minutes.

The gulls were not the only predator at watch on the cliffs.  Peregrines have nested high up in one of the crevices in the rocks, and two gazed down from above, occasionally diving with breathtaking pace towards the water below - we did not see them make a catch, but undoubtedly it was only a matter of time before they would.

As evening turned to night we dragged ourselves away from the drama unfolding before us, making our way up the steep escarpment as the light at St Annes flashed across the bay, with the dark forms of puffins flitting through the air around us.  A good end to the day.

Stormy seas and gas bottles

Puffins relax near me at the Wick, sheltering from the wind

Its been a busy week on Skomer, and again I look out of the kitchen window at driving rain and a grey blanket of cloud beyond the farm wall.  Yesterday we tried a swim – out of the wind it is warm and humid – but once out in the bay we found the swell greater than we had expected.  It was exhilarating, but a little worrying, to look down into wide, grey troughs of broken water, and in the next moment be sliding down into them, the puffins rising and falling along with us, as unconcerned as in a flat calm.  Although the surface was rough, the sea was no colder than usual, and by swimming at an angle to counter the current we got back to the steps without too much incident – but with a bit of adrenalin running through our veins!

Chris pilots the rib to the landing steps

The poor weather means that the guillie and razor chicks have struggled to find a tranquil time to fledge, and as a result the ledges are filled with over-sized chicks, barely able to hide under their parent’s wings.  While the weather was still fairly calm we managed to transfer some gas bottles onto the island; Chris, Sarah, Lewis and I heading out into the mist on the island rib, which powers fast over the waves, spray flying; very different to the sedate progress of the Dale Princess! We only had ten bottles to collect, so it was a fairly easy assignment, rolling the heavy metal cylinders down the beach at Martin’s Haven and man-handling them into the boat.  On the way to the shore we stopped by the Princess, and exchanged greetings with the Springwatch team, who were visiting to film a few shots, a follow-up to last year’s program.  With Television in mind, I will sign off now – the final of the Euros begins soon, and people from North Haven and the farm are gathering round the small portable TV; the type of communal viewing common to island life, that on the mainland is now a thing of the past...

Gas bottles on the beach at North Haven, ready for the tractor to pick up

Kittiwakes and growing chicks

This afternoon I have time to relax; with a full round of sites completed yesterday I only needed to check a few Guillemots and Razorbills whose chicks have reached the 15 day 'success' mark; it is a satisfying time when I can begin to reduce the number of birds I am watching, leaving the large chicks, now smart and mostly down-free, to make their final jump into the sea under the guidance of their parents.  One evening I intend to head down to High Cliff to see this fledging event; in calm conditions the chicks are cojoled from the ledge, by nudges from their mothers, and calls from their fathers on the water far below.  Photos and description to follow when they begin to jump in large numbers!

Kittiwake with small chick at South Stream

Around the island the dead heads of the Bluebell swathes have long since been obliterated by a rising tide of bracken.  This is getting tall in some areas, despite being burnt off in others by the frequent high winds and cold temperatures we have experienced this year.  There is a humid almost jungle-like feel to the South Stream research path, with Water Dropwort, campion, bracken and the occasional Common Male fern providing luxuriant cover, and hiding rabbit burrows from the unwary walker.

The Kittiwake ringing group at South Stream

A couple of days ago I joined Dave, Annette, Phil and Lewis on a trip to ring Kittiwakes at South Stream Cliffs; the birds are taken from the cliff by a noose on a pole (which they appear oblivious to until it descends over them and they are lifted from their ledge).  The noose (which is painless to them through their thick white plumage) is quickly removed, and they are held in soft bags for ringing before being released.  They soon return to their nests, unperturbed by their experience.  It is an interesting and skilful operation to observe, and also a chance to clamber over the rocks below the cliffs, where the Kittiwakes, Guillemots and Razorbills stare down at you from their tiered ledges.




Waiting for birds to come within reach

Kittiwakes on all the cliffs now have broods of small downy chicks, grey-white with stubby wings, up to three to a nest.  Although these families appear well, my surveys so far have revealed many breeding failures, some as a result of stormy seas washing nests off the cliff-face, others where nests were never completed.  It is unclear whether the inclement weather or some other factor is to blame for this apparently poor performance.

A heavy swell endangers Kittiwakes nests at the Wick

Evening social life on the island has been revolving around the Euros, with Dave and Phil joining us from North Haven to enjoy the games, and the entertainment of trying to get cans into the recycling box without moving (which is a very hit-and-miss enterprise!).  The mood was somewhat punctured by England's exit on penalties; I am now free from the Birdlog/football clash - the usual outcome of which you can probably guess! We have also been joined by Ali, the new long term volunteer, who seems enthusiastic about her stay, and enjoyed her first reptile transect (we saw a new record of 57 slow worms!)... I will attempt some reptile photos in the coming days...

Dawn on Skomer

The main track, looking south. Below, north valley in mist

This morning I set my alarm for half four, so that I could head down to the Harold Stone for sunrise.  The stone is a prehistoric monument, and there are a number of theories about its original use.  I was curious to see where the solstice sun would rise relative to it, and given that tomorrow (the longest day) is likely to be overcast, I took the opportunity to see the sunrise a day early.

As the dark of night receded I walked down the track to North Haven, mist drifting about me low over the ground, North Valley swathed in the fog to my left, and the sea silver smooth; there was barely a breath of wind.  The air was fresh, the flowers and vegetation damp with dew, and the sky was streaked pink and grey, with a plume of steam rising from the refinery at Milford.

Low over St David's peninsular a bank of grey cloud prevented me seeing the sun break the horizon, and in the end I had to guess at where it had initially risen.  But the island and the view out over the bay were stunning; well worth the early start!

Above, sunrise from the Harold Stone, below, the stone at dawn

Update: The Myth of the Individual

19/06/12: I've just put a new essay on my 'Thoughts and Comments' page, about the individual and society - if you are interested, just follow the tab above to reach the right page...

Creative Writing Update: The Bond

I've just added a poem called ''The Bond' to my Creative Writing page, which came to me during a walk out to the coast on a stormy evening a couple of days ago - you can find it via the tabs above...

More storms

For a second week, the days before the weekend are windblown and wet.  I am sitting in the library at North Haven, after a lunchtime meeting and several cups of tea.  Out over St Brides a tanker rolls on the swell, and thousands of Shearwaters criss cross, just above the grey waves. 

Breakers hit the Mew Stone, with Skokholm beyond

Today my first Razorbill chick reached its official fledging date: the day where I can count its parents as successful.  Its fate on jumping from the cliff is, of course, yet to be decided, but for my figures it is the success of rearing offspring that counts.  This evening we have a party (after the football!) to mark the end of Molly's stay, and to say goodbye to this week's volunteers (although they are unlikely to be able to leave until Sunday given the weather...) Hopefully I will be able to visit my sites again tomorrow afternoon (if the wind lessens) and tick off some more successful chicks!

I have added a short descriptive piece to my Creative Writing page, so check it out if you like...

Hatching eggs and a swim with Puffins

12/06/12

Today a heavy sea mist rolled in over the Wick and High Cliff, and despite the sunshine I cannot survey for now.  Over the last few days I have been busy watching eggs hatching; many Guillemots have fluffy grey chicks, their tiny beaks poking out momentarily between wing and back, the chicks themselves safely tucked into soft-feathered brood patches.  The Puffins have been in relaxed and inquisitive mood, yesterday pecking at my feet as I watched the cliffs, and pulling at my boot laces, which obviously looked like good nesting material!

I swam over to the other side of North Haven on one particularly calm evening, and they let me in amongst one of their gatherings, swimming gently with the birds all around me, their gentle calls mixing with the sound of the water, and the cries of gulls overhead.  Then one took fright, and they were gone in an explosion of beating wings and a spray of water.  Before I turned for home, a final treat; a Fulmar swept low above me and landed only a couple of metres away; much bigger than the Puffins, the tubes on the top of their beaks are used to excrete excess salt - the birds spend long periods at sea, without access to fresh water.  He regarded me quizzically for a while, before taking flight; his large, flat feet pattering over the water as he took to the air.

Update: I have recently added to my Creative Writing page, just follow the link at the top of this page to take a look...

Nature and Fear: New 'Thoughts and Comments' Post

Just updated the 'Thoughts and Comments' page of the blog, with a short piece on 'Nature and Fear' - enjoy!

A party and a new team member

Yesterday morning I took the new long-term volunteer (Molly) to Bull Hole to show her the Guillemot and Razorbill sites. She is taking over from Aaron, who left on Friday to start a new job in the Brecons. On Thursday night another BBQ marked the end of his stay.  With fog drifting over the island we sheltered in the old farm - long ruined, but with Perspex canopies providing protection from the elements. We also used the occasion to draw our Euro 2012 sweepstake, which Sarah (the assistant warden) enthusiastically organised, writing out teams and collecting money from even the most reluctant football followers.

The farm, with the ruined farmhouse on the right

Of course, being the most interested in the tournament, myself and Dave ended up with two of the teams least likely to win - Sweden and Poland respectively - and my attempt to swap with Tom for Ireland was quickly stopped - teams and people were already matched up in Sarah's notebook! The night grew later, the jokes more inappropriate and the drinks stronger - in the end I turned in at three, leaving the others chatting by candlelight in the mist-swathed farmhouse. So Aaron left before a Guillemot had hatched (although he saw a Razorbill chick on his last survey); when I got to Bull Hole on Friday a Guillemot chick was inevitably the first thing I saw, just outside the survey plot.



The farm from the west

The upshot of all this is that Molly is taking over Aaron's sites at Bull Hole at a time which is both rewarding (watching new hatchlings never fails to bring a smile to your face) and challenging (daily visits are needed to get accurate hatch dates, so that chick ages can be monitored properly). She seems enthusiastic, and was lucky enough to see two new chicks almost immediately as I showed her the sites. Having spent the last month or so on Skokholm, there is a lot for her to get used to - there are many more people on Skomer, and a different set of jobs, including giving introductory talks and dealing with day visitors.

Razorbills at Bull Hole through the telescope (a bit blurry!)

With Molly settled in at the hide I made my way round to the Wick, passing a family of Ravens near Skomer Head, cronking and spiralling acrobatically in the rising wind. The sea surged around the land below the spot from which I view the cliffs, and the Razorbills were sitting tight in the cold. Puffins lined the cliff tops and flew in off the sea, many with gleaming silver sand eels for their young, sometimes almost stationary where they tried to progress against the wind. In the end I gave up - the conditions were just too blustery to get a clear view of the cliffs through my 'scope - and I returned to a hot cup of tea and the BBC coverage of the Jubilee celebrations (with additional and entertaining commentary from the volunteers who joined us for the occasion).

English Stonecrop in flower at the Wick

This evening I had my first swim for a week or so, and with rain and high winds forecasted for the rest of the week perhaps the last for a while; the Razorbills close to the landing stage watched my progress with interest, and it was enjoyable to be back in the water, albeit in a fairly heavy swell!

Thrift in flower near the steps, and (below) Razorbills on the cliffs

Moths and Razorbills

A view over the bay from the Harold Stone

As I write heavy mist shrouds the island, so that I can see little out of our kitchen windows beyond the wall of the courtyard.  Luckily I managed to survey most of my Razorbill sites before the cloud drifted in off the sea; I have five new chicks at High Cliff, and two at the Wick.  The parents guard them closely, tucked in under their bodies with a tiny beak occasionally visible, poking out between the wing and the back of the adult.  One or two were still casting of sections of white egg shell as their parents fidgeted, adjusting themselves from incubating an egg to looking after a chick. 

The Guillemot eggs are not due to start hatching for another day or so, and then I will have a few intense days keeping track of all the changes!

A tracking device is attached to an adult Razorbill

While eggs are hatching on the ledges, research into the behaviour of adult birds continues for the Ph.D. students at North Haven.  At the moment, as well as carrying out work on the behaviour of Shearwaters and Puffins, they are attaching tracking devices to Razorbills which allow them to investigate the movements and feeding behaviour of the birds.  Sarah and I joined Akiko, Andrea, and their supervisor Tim as they went over to the Garland Stone to find adult birds to attach the devices to.  The tracking systems used are small and light, and do not harm the birds – they are designed to fall off naturally if an individual is not re-caught.  Razorbills nest in rocky crevices around the coast line, some on inaccessible cliff faces; others on grassy slopes that are easier to reach.  Close to the Garland Stone several inhabit some of these easier-to-reach locations, and with the help of a wire to hook the birds by the feet they can be gathered from their hiding places, have the devices attached, and be released within a few minutes.  The birds remain surprisingly calm while being handled – once their heads are covered with a light cloth bag they lie still and relax (although the unwary can be caught out with a sharp nip from their formidable beaks).  I watched on as the others worked – special licences and careful checking of methods are required before someone is allowed to undertake this kind of activity.  The GPS device is attached to the back of the bird, a small plastic tube that records water depth goes onto one leg, and a BTO ring is also attached.  Thus equipped the birds are weighed and released, flying low over the grass and back out across the bay.

A Razorbill is weighed before release (below)

It was a pleasant, sunny evening, with views north to Ramsey, and a warm breeze off the sea.  I sketched the same view on my day off last weekend – the rough attempt below is a crude representation, but gives a feel of the bay, Ramsey, and the Clerks and Bishops islands off its westerly tip. 

A sketch of the view from Pigstone Bay towards Ramsey Island

Another summer activity is becoming more fruitful as the weather warms – the daily routine of putting out the moth trap is producing dividends.  Below are a few of the catches from a couple of days ago – released after identification.  In the third photo the moth is vibrating its wings – a method of warming itself before take-off.

White Ermine moth

Spectacle moth

Lychnis moth

Knot Grass moth

26th to 28th of May

As afternoon drifts towards evening I sit up on the rocks beyond the Harold Stone, with St Brides and her brood of supertankers awaiting entry to Milford Haven laid out before me in the hazy sunshine.  Another milestone passed for the season today - my first Razorbill chick at High Cliff.  I watched its parents fussing over their new offspring as another parent - an Lesser Black Backed Gull - skimmed over my head, deciding that, despite my daily presence since last April, I was now a threat to her nest. Further above me a Raven and a particularly scruffy Buzzard tangled briefly before going their separate ways.

The last couple of days have passed quickly.  I finished the last of my early season Fulmar surveys (I visit them three times to record the number of active sites, returning in August to count the number of large chicks).  On The Neck too the Lesser Black Backs are in combative mood; close to the trace of a path that winds between the Manxie burrows were nests harbouring tiny downy chicks, their discarded egg shells close by.  There is a certain peacefulness to that part of the island - no large paths, no people, only echoes of a distant past - prehistoric earthworks and, to the east, a stone circle, although I have never been that far round - the ground is very fragile.

It is much cooler now than on Friday, when I swam for a long time in the bay - a cold southerly wind blusters over the back of the island.  From where I sit, clumps of pale daffodils pierce the bluebell swathes, signs of spring that are lingering long this year.  Rabbits lollop over the turf and an occasional swallow arrows by, low over the vegetation, and below my rocky perch.  Time to head back  to the farm and make some food...

New Photos!

Very hot here! I've added some more photos of the Curlew chicks below, and there are new entries on the Creative Writing and the Thoughts and Comments pages...

Curlew chicks and Fulmars: 23rd of May

Wednesday was a busy day; I completed a full round of my Razorbill and Guillie sites before heading off to survey the Fulmars.  The Fulmar surveying offers me a chance to move around the island, with relatively quick checks of a number of sites, from the Amos in the West to a trip out onto The Neck to the East.  I was accompanied by Will, the long term volunteer on Skokholm, who was on Skomer for two days before he headed back out to the other island; it was good to have company, and to be able to compare notes on the monitoring being undertaking on our sister island.  On the isthmus seperating the main island from The Neck, my surveying spot is pretty precarious - out on a narrow spit of land (see photo below) where I sit close to the cliff edge and try to pick out nest sites, while being mobbed by Herring Gulls who have a clutch of eggs right on the promontory.

Herring Gull eggs near my Fulmar site

Later, up at the farm, I joined Sarah, Lewis, Tom and Aaron on a trip to ring the Curlew chicks that have been spotted on Gorse Hill, south of the farm.  Myself and Aaron watched on and took photos, as the others ringed the birds (bird-ringing requires a licence, and there are careful rules to be followed in handling the chicks and applying the rings.  Ringing does not harm the birds, and is important in monitoring movements and survival).  The Curlew chicks are strikingly patterned, lacking the adult's long, curved beak, but making up for it with their over-sized grey legs.  Despite their bright plumage, they can be hard to find among the mosaic of grassland vegetation; important with so many hungry gulls about!

A Curlew chick, sporting a new ring!