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