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.