Back on the #Mainland

The sun was forcing its warmth through the Autumn air as I strolled down the rocky path to the beach. I past a man in a blue coat, and greeted him cheerily. He growled a response and glared at me for apparently disturbing him. My afternoon day dream collapsed around me as I once again remembered where I was. I am back on the mainland, and this isn't a place where you have a good chat with everyone you meet, this isn't a place of shared experiences, of community. It is all too often a place of individuals and suspicious looks. But in my head I was still on Skomer and still in the mindset of saying hello to everyone, and ready to answer questions and chat about wildlife and island life.

I don't mind admitting I was really nervous about moving out to Skomer. It was understandable given the remoteness, lack of beach and waves, wondering if I'd be able to grow a relationship I'd just started. But what really surprised me was how anxious I felt about leaving the island. The stress of uncertainty about leaving dates and times due to the weather was something I'd grown accustomed to during my months on Skomer, but there was something else gnawing away at me. I was scared I'd become institutionalised.

I'd spent six months in less than a five square mile area with no cars, no shops, no cash machines, no adverts, and not many people. As the engines flared on the RIB taking me off the island, and seals splashed under water I realised I was nervous of "normal" world feeling alien. It hadn't taken long to adjust to Skomer, in part because we were all busy with work. But it felt like it might take more time to re-adjust to the mainland and to its concepts. On Skomer you do things yourself, you realise that the island could become a pressure cooker unless you respect and assist you fellow island residents, and you always take a minute to enjoy the view and breathe the fresh air.

On the mainland life is rushed by the trappings of modernity. Instant information and instant service has fuelled the growth of a society of individuals. People are in it for themselves. This realisation took me a while to get used to, and is in complete contrast to the necessary community spirit that developed on the island. I think I have adjusted to deal with the mainland again, but I fear I do not enjoy interacting with many of the people who inhabit it. Perhaps island life has in some way radicalised me. I do not yearn, as some environmentalists and communitarians do, for a less technological, more agrarian society. Technology has and will be part of the progress of society, but I fear its course is currently guided not by communal and social goals, but by capitalist need for individual profit.

Perhaps we should run a course on Skomer for app designers, Apple executives and the Tory cabinet...

Brussels, Borders and Birds

The turnout for the last European elections was low in the UK. This was entirely predictable, as we are fed a diet by the British media that depicts the EU as an unaccountable, centralising, bureaucratic monster that serves Germany and France. The election ended in a backlash against the EU, with UKIP sending their first MEPs to Brussels, resulting in the Conservatives scrambling to appeal to voters by promising to claw back powers from the European monster. "George slaying the dragon" and all the rhetoric of the anti-EU lobby has acted like a dark fog, obscuring the sensible debate on why we're all better off as part of a reformed European Union.

All this anti-EU debate clearly effected the new EU President Juncker. His appointment of new Commissioners seemed to be guided by appeasement of countries that had been the most noisey in their nationalist clamour. But he lost his mind at some point and appointed Karmenu Vella, from Malta, as EU Commissioner for the Environment, Maritime Affairs and Fisheries. Malta is the site of a yearly massacre of migratory birds by so called "hunters". Birdlife Malta and many other NGOs have been lobbying the EU to take legal action against the Maltese government for allowing this hunting to continue despite it flouting EU conservation laws. I'm going to hazard a guess that a Maltese minister probably won't take action against his own government and country....Did you vote in the EU elections? No, then some of the blame for the insane appointment of Vella, is yours. It's mine too, I didn't register for postal voting this time around. It won't happen again.

So what on earth has this got to do with Skomer Island? I'll make a couple of presumptions off the bat about you, dear reader. Firstly I am going to presume that because you are reading this blog you care about the wildlife of our island. Secondly, and related, is that you'd probably claim to care about the "environment" as a whole; landscapes, habitats, forests, wetlands, natural resources. If those presumptions are correct, then I think you should read on and let me explain why I think you should be staunchy pro-European in your political choices, because it is only through collaboration at European Union level and above that we can really protect and conserve all wildlife, from you back garden birds to the birds of Skomer.

Skomer Island may be a small island, a geological needle in the global haystack, but it is internationally important for its breeding seabirds. It's an important piece in the puzzle of European bird life. This puzzle is made up of many islands, headlands, wetlands, forests, heaths and mountains that line the migratory routes of birds. Starting with Malta and Sicilly, our migrant birds follow ancient routes (routes that are also used by other desperate migrants, compelled to travel north by any means in the hope of finding a more fruitful land -  but that's another blog). These routes cross many national borders; a swallow could pass through six or more countries on its way to summer in northern Wales. Our guillemots could spend time fishing in the national waters of the UK, Ireland, France, Spain and Portugal in one year. And of course our Manx Shearwaters cross international borders, international time zones, and even the equator on their way too and from the River Plate estuary. But it's not just these Skomer specialists to consider. Garden birds also migrate into France and beyond in winter. September saw a large passage of robins on Skomer, some of which will winter in southern England, some of which will head into France.

Given the ignorance and contempt for human boundaries from wildlife of all types, one must question whether action on a national level to conserve a species in decline can have any positive response, when it could be factors in another country that are causing the problems? The answer is not much. Recent history quickly taught environmentalists that international cooperation is a crucial factor. The fallout from Chernobyl affected Welsh sheep farmers, Norwegian forests are affected by British sulphur dioxide emissions, CFC's from all over the globe depleted the ozone layer above the Antarctic. In this latter case, global cooperation and collaboration has worked to eliminate the cause of the problem, if not alleviate its effects. The examples listed are all to do with pollution, but the point is transferable to wildlife - local action is not enough. Conservation strategies need to consider species as whole, and to consider their entire life history, including migration routes, wintering grounds and breeding sites. This cannot be achieved alone.

Since its inception, the European Union has fulfilled it's number one goal - preventing conflict in Europe through economic and social integration. It's remit has evolved, of course, and has included environmental legislation. Politicians and environmentalists from all over Europe quickly realised the potential in the EU to provide an international approach and legislative framework to conservation that could deal with cross-border species and habitats.It has given us Special Areas of Conservation, Specially Protected Areas, the Directive on the Conservation of Wild Birds, the Habitats Directive and more. In addition to legal protection, conservation NGOs and local government has benefited from huge amounts of EU funding, especially in Wales.

Yet British politicians want to turn their back on all this progress and go-it alone. If David Cameron is suggesting opting out for the European Convention on Human Rights to cut "red tape" for businesses and re-patriate sovereignty, then what might they do to environmental laws? So my argument is this - if you really care about protecting British wildlife, then it's time to look at the bigger picture and see what we can achieve if we act together. Staying in the EU and deciding on its reform is the most constructive path we can choose. Participating in EU elections will help stop countries like Malta getting away with the senseless destruction of migrating birds, and will make sure that the EU is more responsive to its citizens and the needs of its environments and wildlife.

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2014/sep/27/birds-slaughter-malta-karmenu-vella-europe-environment-commissioner

These opinions are personal and not the views of the Wildlife Trust of South and West Wales

Storm Diaries - The Pressure Valve

The furrowed sea was lit blue by the sun. Twinkling, winking, tempting, seductive. But with the wind at its back it remained a deadly barrier, a prison wall. We had gone five days without a boat to the island. No visitors nor any chance to leave. Stuck as we were with the same faces, same views, same boundaries. Given time any beautiful view will fade. It becomes broken down into its constituent parts; a sheer cliff, turbulent waters. Beauty in modern eyes was dangerous territory to past inhabitants of this land.

I was learning about freedom. The physical barrier of Jack Sound has grown into a mental one. The lack of boats means a lack of freedom of opportunity. You can't go shopping, go to the pub, go for a curry, go for a walk somewhere new, go and see old friends. When the boats run daily you can do these things. You normally don't but the opportunity exists in physical form. Having that escape route created a delicious freedom of thought in my mind that prevented it from being starved due to island life. But now there was no boat.

Despite the wind our island cage was often warmed by the sun. Walking round the empty paths even felt liberating at times. I belted out songs I was listening to on my iphone, something I'd never subject other people to. I had time to explore hidden crags and peer over cliffs I'd not approached before. I ran too, burning off frustrated energy, captivation, isolation and dulled motivation.

Finally the wind ceased. The boat nudged its way past the far headland out into the sound, its blue hull slowly slapping the waves out of its course. It rolled and bent with the tidal floes and eddies, calmly steering into the haven and approaching the landing in a relaxed manner, unrealising that she was the key to unlocking my caged mind. That she was Pandora. That she was a spectre of freedom.

With more bad weather forecast I took the opportunity to leave for the night. I had plans to go out for dinner, go to the supermarket and enjoy those little slices of normal life. But first I had a score to settle with the sea.

After a short drive I found myself skipping down a dusty grass path to the cove, my longboard squeezed under my right arm, my eyes squinting hopefully at lines in the water. I bounced over the slippery rocks to the sand, pausing briefly to zip up my wetsuit and quickly stretch my back. Three of four surfers were struggling with a consistent but weak wave at the south side of the cove. But at the north end a rip current was helping form a shapely wave breaking close to the rusty ruins of a collapsed sandstone cliff. I paddled north, through the litter of the storm; broken bladderwrack, strips of laver and a brown sludge of seaweed that had been torn from the rocks.

A set of waves approached, catching my attention as they lurched over an outer sand bank. They moved towards me, steep silver shapes in the glare of the evening sun. I picked a wave and caught it, my board gliding with more and more speed. The wave lined up small and steep in front of me. One step forward, then another. Toes shuffling to the edge of the board. In a moment the board disappeared entirely from the experience and I was flying weightless and free, just me and the sea. I fell in love with the sea, my captor, once again. I was dancing atop my prison's walls.

With a satisfied fatigue I climbed the slow path to the car park. I realised I was completely relaxed, having released all that pressure that had built in my mind. After a cosy sleep in the back of the car, I crept outside to meet an autumn chill at half past five the next morning. Smaller waves broke in the bay, whilst my wetsuit dripped cold after the nights rain. I crawled back into my sleeping bag smiling. Although I'd decided not to surf that morning, the point was that I'd decided. I finally had the freedom to choose. I could have gone surfing right then and there. I could have.

Storm Diaries Day Three

The soft earth was clinging to my feet. Or at least it felt like it through my heavy legs. Cold air driven from the north scratched my throat while the sun drilled into my skin. I kept running. A quick glance at my watch spurred me on. Faster. Up hill, up rocky path, round stumbling corners and over bracken covered burrows. This was a great idea, I though. A wild way to tackle a wild day.

The coffee dregs of three mugs were the tideline of my productivity for the morning. My diary lay open at a crumpled page with a list of things neatly ticked or crossed off in blue biro. Fresh air and a fresh head was needed by the early afternoon, so I ventured into the wind. The sun surprised me. Warm, strong and comforting, it cut through the fog of the past few days. It felt nourishing and energising after yesterdays brush with Bertha.

I decided a run would be good for me. And now here I was, alone on a headland at the far point of the island. The ocean was malevolently hunched and twisted, spraying the cliffs and rocks with white spite. The bare rock outcrops and walls stood silently in resistance to the winds attempts. But the plants bent willingly, subservient and bowing. Tussocky grasses rippled, small flowers grasped the earth in the withering winds. And all around the gulls maintained their watch, lifting into the air in effortless contrast upon my approach, mocking my clumsy movements in their cries.

I made it back to the farm, nearly sprinting down the cobble track, desperate to record a sub-thirty minute time for my lap of the island. Panting through a smile I recovered sat on the sun-warmed turf. Tired, content and cured from yesterday's laments.

Storm Diaries Day Two

August 10th

The rain drummed on the roof. It scratched at the windows and chiselled at the doors. No wind yet, I thought, as I woke. Dull clouds were clinging to the island. Heavy with rain and squashing all energy from the air. Nothing moved except the drops of rain and their echoes in the puddles that had formed in the courtyard of the farm. The sight of it all made me feel lethargic. Sunday morning flatness.

But although these clouds were dramatic in their intense delivery, they were not ex-Hurricane Bertha.

After a coffee I joined the other huddled under the wooden roof. Nobody spoke. No one dared break the stillness of the morning. We watched a troupe of starlings pick their way over the lawn. It had the feeling of being a depressing grey day. Perhaps it is a natural reaction to such stifling weather to resign yourself to laziness.

As we slowly started to clean inside the hostel, the wind made its entrance. Swerving in from the north it whipped up the puddles and ruffled the bracken. It kept increasing in its speed and persistence, slowly tearing apart the mornings grey blanket, leaving scraps of white cloud in an ever more blue sky.

Bertha must have moved to the south, I thought. As it passed in the night it has sucked down cooler air from the north into its wake, creating gale force winds over the island. Although we've been spared the brunt of the storm, the effects on the island (or at least its population) could be worse. We now face a week of strong north west and north winds. These winds push choppy seas into the boat landing, making a voyage dangerous. It appears we may be here on our own for some time.

As the sun emerged, so we did. A quick walk round the island with the volunteers revealed the effects of the rains. Paths have been scoured deeply, their contents lost to the sea. The plants seem trampled as if by some giant. As we staggered into the winds we'd often spot a Manx Shearwater chick out in the open, wind parting its soft grey down to reveal nearly formed flight feathers. As the rains fed the rising water table, these birds have escaped their sodden burrows. Their misery was compiled, however, by the murderous attentions of black-back gulls and ravens waiting for them to emerge. Evidence of a bloody night was strewn about the island. The guilty parties looked on from their perches, unremorseful.

Storm Diaries Day One

9th August

My computer screen looked bruised. Blues, purples and reds appeared like welts on the weather forecast. The numbers matching them looked middle aged; 48,42,50 but disguising a menacing reality. Hurricane Bertha, or at least her legacy, was heading for the island tonight. High winds, equatorial rains and a whipped sea would mean our daily boat, the fragile heartstring that connects us to the mainland, would be cancelled. Until further notice.

I checked the date. It still said August. But the horizon read November. Untold millions of water droplets are held in suspense, darkening the skies. That same atmosphere of suspense now permeates the island.

Windows and doors have been checked, closed and locked. Visitors have left. People have left. Only a few staff remained to welcome our arriving weekly volunteers. They landed under a promising sun. We explained. Good humour mixed with nervous smiled responses. If the forecast holds true our weekly volunteers might be here a while longer.

Jason fidgets with his phone, checking the forecast again. He has lived on more remote islands than this one. He has seen worse storms. But you can see that his common sense is fighting an inner battle with anxiety. He needs the forecast to change. He needs to leave next week. Attending a wedding next Saturday is just the first stop on a journey to a warmer Mediterranean island and to his girlfriend.

Me? I've given up caring. All the instincts as a surfer have tried to drive me off the island. Go find shelter, they scream. Go to Tenby, go to Ceiriad! But I'm resigned to riding this storm out from the grandstand of the island. I'll watch the ocean swells overwhelm the resistance of tidal currents. I'll watch them invade the beaches of Pembrokeshire with unseasonal power, marching deep into the coastal reaches of the sea. I'm sure it won't be a wasted voyage. It will be enjoyed, but not by me, not this time.

So for now I fill my mind with preparing the island. We have closed the gates, lashed down gas bottles and tied down wheelbarrows. The boat has been brought onto the slipway and now lounges enjoying a view of a calm North Haven. We check the doors to the boathouse. A squall hits and the first splashed of rain erupt in the dust of the track. I heave myself onto the ripped seat of the old blue tractor. More rain comes. I pull my hood, already damp, over my head. I allow myself a final, wistful, glance at the mainland before starting the engine and starting the long slow rumble up to the farm.

Parenting Class

It’s nearly August on Skomer Island. The breeding season for islands resident and migrant birds is over. Most chicks have fledged and the silence is deafening. A quietness threatens to take over, steadily moving in like a storm front on the horizon.

May, June and July have all flown by, each with their own character and their own challenges. May’s Bank Holidays brought visitors, and long busy days, while its winds swept in visitors of a different kind. For a while the island buzzed with the mechanical song of Sedge Warblers, and Wheatears chased ahead of us as we walked the paths. There was an energy in the air as staff, volunteers and researchers all hoped to score season “firsts” whether they be rare birds or first chicks.

June saw steady visitor numbers but I think I spent the least time on the island of all my months on Skomer. Not, I should point out, due to holidays or general skiving, but because my time was mostly spent in our small Zodiac boat, skipping over the tidal currents to count our seabird colonies. Scurvy  lips, silly boat talk, binocular sunburn marks, the smell of petrol and general cursing at having to do recounts are how I would summarise June. It was great.

July has had more relaxed character. Crowds of photographers no longer hustle puffins at the Wick. Instead a more family atmosphere has taken over and people are enjoying a late puffin season. More smiles. More laughter. But a sadness clouds the ledges and cliffs. Our guillemots and razorbills are leaving. A few lonely birds remain; failed parents perhaps mourning their mistakes. All the efforts of June to get to know these birds seem like sepia tinged memories.

So with a sentimental mind I decided to look back at our breeding birds and asses their broad range of parental skills. I feel that a comparison to the parenting approaches I see on a trip to Tesco’s or Haverfordwest High Street will provide zero zoological or ornithological value. But it might be amusing…

So we’ll start off with taking some parental stereotypes and then seeing which residents of Skomer they could apply to. So say hello to Competitive Dad, The Embarrassing, The Libertarians, and The Overprotective.

Competitive Dad

“You can do it son! Just a little further. No. No. It’s not that high. Listen the next door neighbours lad did it and you know what he’s like! Just jump will you?!”

It might sound like a whistling call to you, but that is what Mr Guillemot is saying to his son as he tries to talk him into jumping 80ft off a cliff. It does seem to work however, as the jumplings all take the plunge into a cold sea they were born to call home. The waters echo to the calls of guillemot fathers and their chicks and then all of a sudden they’re gone. Swimming off into the horizon to safety. It may be competitive but it works.

The Embarrassing

“Mum! Why do you always have to make it about you? Can’t you ever let me figure it out myself and make my own mistakes? God you’re so loud and embarrassing…”

The ear piercing kleep kleep kleep of Oystercatchers never ceases on Skomer. Any approach of their chicks or territory leads to a noisy, brash, loud defence. I like to imagine that the fledged oystercatcher chicks are stroppy teenagers, constantly embarrassed by the noisy distractions their parents make at any sign of trouble. As July fades, so does the noise as the young oystercatchers learn to avoid trouble themselves.

The Libertarians

These parents are very cool, very laissez-faire. They’re all about life lessons, letting their children figure things out for themselves and problem-solve. They want their children to travel far, and learn outside of the class room. They’ll leave their kids at home for days to fend for themselves.

They are the Manx Shearwaters. Happy to leave their chicks for a day or two while they go off fishing. Happy to leave the chicks for a week or more and go travelling. Hoping that the chicks will find their own way to the wintering grounds off the coasts of Argentina and Brasil.

The Overprotective

Do you know any parents who like to know exactly what their kids are doing at all times? Any who freak out at the first sign of illness, a grazed knee or any sort of trip into the unknown?

I do. Thousands of them. They are the black backed gulls. Whether they be lesser or greater they’re both equally loud, defensive and over protective. It’s nearly July. Their chicks can fly their way out of trouble yet I seem to be being swooped and dive bombed by them more than ever. And their whinging cries squash all sounds from the skies. If they were people they’d be at the front of the queue in the doctor’s surgery complaining about their children having to wait to see a doctor for a common cold. They’d be writing letters to the Telegraph about their immigrant neighbours. They’d be turning up out of the blue at their kids university halls to make sure there was no fun being had.

I’m sure there are more parental lessons I could draw from the wildlife of Skomer. Each approach has its niche, it’s way of being a cog in the productive system that is Skomer Island. They say nature has a tendency to complexity. A multitude of different approaches ensures success. It’s certainly evident here on the island.

Are Puffins Socialist?

Are Puffins Socialist?
I may have studied environmental politics while an undergraduate, but this really was not the sort of question I expected to have answer at work on Skomer Island. But it actually raises some interesting questions about the social life of the seabirds for which Skomer is famous. Let me explain.

The question of the political tendencies of Puffins came about after a Skype call to my girlfriend. I mentioned the upcoming Bank Holiday on May 5th and said it probably had its date set by the Christian calendar somewhere in the past. I was immediately scolded for my lack of knowledge and was told that the May 1st break is traditionally a celebration of the worker. In her native Denmark people will be gathering in parks and enjoying the warmth of the spring air and a few beers, communally singing The International while stroking their goatees and comparing notes on the ethical credentials of their coffees and organic t-shirts. Ok I may have made some of the last bits up and there’s no way the Danish are wandering around in t-shirts at this time of year.

This raised the question of whether I would be celebrating this most socialist of public holidays on Skomer Island. As I stumbled for a witty answer to buy time to eventually make myself look clever, it dawned on me that island life was rather socialist. Now I’m not talking about factory working, propaganda consuming, 20th century socialism as portrayed in the decidedly un-socialist media. Instead it’s more communitarian. On the island we work together, we fit our personal agendas around jobs that need to be done for the common good. For example we needed to take delivery of 10 big gas bottles and had to collect them in our small boat from the mainland. Gas is our cooking and heating source. We all use it. We all need it. So my to-do list for the day was immediately scrapped, as were those of four other people, because the common need to sort out our gas supply was more important.

As I was expounding on my rather dry theory of island driven socialism, my girlfriend asked me if I thought the Puffins are socialist too (see there was a link there all along, thanks for sticking with me this far). The Puffins seem very social. They gather in big groups at this time of year on the water before wheeling around the small bays of Skomer and eventually landing next to their familial burrows. But then they split into pairs and will draw blood fighting over the best burrow sites. They seem quite socialist on the outside but quickly decide that property is everything. Not quite socialist then, more like New Labour.

Meanwhile our Guillemots gather in huge numbers at certain well ledged cliffs. They spend April trying to synchronise their hormones so that they generally mate and then lay eggs around the same time. On their exposed nest sites, their only protection from egg thieving crows and gulls is safety in numbers. Their combined noise, alarms and a thousand sharp beaks are the defence against one egg being taken. This seems very socialist to me. All working together for the common good of their species. They even have a one-child policy, only laying one egg each season.

In general the natural world is socialist to me. Different species have a range of survival strategies but the overall result is always that the individual comes second to the good of the species. Darwinist theory supports this; an individual that dies due to ill health, migratory mistakes or inability to feed will not breed and will not pass on its genes to the next generation. Therefore only the strong survive and the species benefits. Survival of the fittest.

The only species that seems to operate outside this rule is humankind. Our moral conscience, perhaps the most distinguishing feature of our species, has seemingly set us on a different course from the rest of the animal kingdom. However I strongly believe that humans should never take too much of an anthropocentric view of the world. We are nothing without the environment that created us. We as much part of it as a bumblebee, whale or guillemot. It is not there for us to use and abuse as we see fit. Don’t know what I’m on about ?(I don’t blame you, I’m not sure I do either), then come and visit Skomer and see some of the species that call this island home. If learning about their incredible life cycles doesn’t put you in your place on this planet, then there’s no hope for you.

An early start and a late finish

It's only April but the days are getting longer. The sun sets around eight thirty in the evening and rises just after six in the morning. The sun's warmth still struggles to overcome the sea borne winds but find a stone sheltered cleft in the islands rocks and the heat is there to feel.

Southerly winds have brought visitors. Migrant birds are using the island as a stepping stone on the ancient routes they follow. Urged and pushed by the need to move, places such as Skomer must be a welcome sight.

I got up early one morning with a visiting friend and film maker to capture the sunrise. A North wind stole the warmth of the coffee we carried up to the rocks. The camera's time-lapse function has stopped working so we took shifts pressing the button every five seconds. We offered up our fingers to the penetrating cold time and time again in the hope of a golden moment. Several times we questioned what we were doing. But in the end?

See for yourself...

A Wild Swim

I wanted to throw the phone at the wall. I growled at the stubborn black screen. It taunted me with three bars of signal but resolutely denied me making any calls. How the hell am I supposed to do my job when I can’t speak to the people I need to speak to. Damn this island!

The sun drenched courtyard of the old farm was splashed with daffodils, while the rolling hills of Pembrokeshire gilded the horizon. But all this was lost on me right then. I think I was having what people might call a “First World” problem, or what I might call a Skomer problem.

The mainland lies tantalisingly close to Skomer. Only separated by the churning tidal race of Jack Sound, you’d be forgiven for thinking that modern communications signals would have no trouble beaming their way through the flocks of gulls and seabirds. Perhaps there is some as yet un-studied mobile phone signal refraction effect relating to numbers of birds in the air? All I know at this stage is that if I see the “Call Not Allowed” message a few more times then my phone is going to be yet another artefact at the bottom of the Sound, joining the 18 shipwrecks already there.

I probably shouldn’t be complaining because I knew that it was likely to be this way. But I can deal with it on a personal level. Being unsure of your next call or Skype with a loved one makes you say what you really feel, while your friends and family know you’re working somewhere extraordinary and will put up with wind slurred phone messages and abrupt ends to phone calls.

So there I am. Cursing at a phone on a glorious Spring day. I had to take a step back. I had to see people off the island that afternoon and then count the Puffins in the North Haven, and being in a bad mood was not going to help me do a good job at either of those tasks. I threw the phone in a pocket and looked at my watch. I realised I had time to do something not many people would ever do, and I knew it would be the tonic I needed.

So I grabbed my wetsuit and a pair of swim fins and started down the stoney track to North Haven. I was going to purge my frustration with a cool swim in the afternoon sunshine. I reached the landing and quickly got changed in the damp old lime kiln. I stood on the edge of the landing, contemplating the milky blue water for a moment before diving in.

The cold water felt cleansing. I kicked under water a few times and my fins pushed me further into the bay. I opened my eyes. The visibility was poor but as I reached the surface I could see hundreds of small orange legs. I broke the water and realised I was surrounded by hundreds of Puffins.

They didn’t seem alarmed. After a few curious looks down their painted beaks they just paddled away. I ducked under the water again hoping to sneak a bit closer but they weren’t fooled. The Puffins ducked their heads under water too and watched my clumsy progress with disdain. I was in their element. They’d survived a brutal Atlantic winter and travelled hundreds of miles in roaring seas and cutting winds, so I think I posed little threat.

After a lap of the buoys I rested, floating on my back. Puffins were wheeling around the bay, gathering in numbers before landings to inspect their burrows. Squadrons of Guillemots and Razorbills were leaving their precarious cliff ledges and passing low over my head. Thousands of seabirds filled the air. Their guttural moans and croaks made a raw, scratching symphony that rebounded from the high cliffs of North Haven. I realised I was experiencing this all from a place that not many people had been. I wasn’t just watching, I was part of it all.

The cold nibbled at my toes as I hauled myself out onto a concrete ledge at the foot of the landing. As I fiddled with my swim fins a Grey Seal surfaced silently just yards in front of me. It’s large black eyes considered me for a minute or two. I don’t know if it wanted me to come back into the water or was saying goodbye. Then with a flourished dive it was gone.

I sprang up the 87 steps to the lime kiln. I’d let the island get under skin earlier in the day. Skomer had been challenging me. Like the birds that thrive here, you can’t just show up and expect to get what you want from the island. You have to search for those unforgettable experiences. You have to earn them. But spend a bit of time here and you will become part of the island, and Skomer will open up to you.

I didn’t think about my phone for the rest of the day.

Clockwatching

I’ve had jobs in the past where I’ve caught myself clockwatching. That slow burn between 3.30 and 5, or the soporific glow of a big lunch that makes the second hand move too lazily. Jobs that have not had a sense of purpose or business.

Even though bad weather and a broken boat engine meant my job on Skomer Island had started on the mainland, I quickly realised that the further I dug the bigger the hole became. There was so much to do, to plan, to organise, to imagine. My first week involved many texts, garbled messages and rushed emails that had me scurrying around shops buying provisions and replacement items for the island. I started to plan work on the website, edit some leaflets, think about events and publicity. My notebook was near full after just a few days. In between all this I found time for some surfing, caught up with old friends and reacquainted myself with the glowering cliffs and crags of Pembrokeshire’s coast.

I finally got onto Skomer by hitching a ride with a volunteer work party on their way to neighbouring Skokholm Island. After an admittedly anxious ten days it was a relief to step foot on the landing at North Haven. My welcoming party included the Wardens Ed and Bee, Assistant Warden Jason, and five or six seals who fixed us with their mocking gaze as we hauled my baggage up 87 steps.

Since I landed I’ve been clockwatching. I admit it. But this time it’s different. I keep looking at my watch and wondering where the time has gone. Why isn’t there an extra hour in the day? Ed, Bee and Jason arrived about three weeks ago and have been working flat out on repairs and cleaning. The hostel, volunteer and research accommodation has needed a lot of work. I’ve been flat out since I got here and now have nothing but admiration for the efforts of these three. Meanwhile they’ve somehow found time to already figure out where Choughs are planning to nest, spotted a rare Cackling Goose, spotted some early Puffins, Raven chicks, a Great Northern Diver, and still managed to find the time to show me the ropes and make me feel very welcome.

We’ve got a few days left before our first guests of the season and before the island is open to the public. The list of things that need to be done keeps growing and no job seems as simple as you might think. We can’t just go down to the hardware store and buy more drillbits. We can’t order replacement parts online and wait for them to be delivered. We can’t start a job and leave it someone else to finish.

But there’s plenty we can do. We can make do and mend. We can saviour the anticipation of a new Skomer season approaching. We should clockwatch as much as possible, make a note of the time, look around at the landscape, seascape, the birds, the island. Because if we don’t we’ll find ourselves getting on the boat off the island in November wondering where the time went.

Stormbound....

 





Well the boat never got fixed, and then the gales set in. So I've had a frustrating week of will I - won't I get to Skomer. But at least I'm back in Wales and enjoying the beautiful Pembrokeshire and Ceredigion coastline.

I've tried to be productive and have been working out of the superb Wildlife Trust Visitor Centre at Cilgerran near Cardigan and staying in some accommodation owned by the Trust.








In between shopping trips to charity shops to search for curtains for the staff accommodation on the island, I've been catching up with some old friends in Mid-Wales and exploring the coast looking for some waves to waste my time on.

There's plenty of work to be doing as I plan some events and marketing, but really I just want to get onto that rock!

A slight hiccup...

It was with red eyes that I finally eased my little car up the long winding hill out of Woolacombe. I'd like to blame my bleary eyes on my friends for sending me off in style the night before, but really I knew that I'd been touched by sadness for leaving a place with so many good memories.

My nostalgia evaporated soon enough as I focused on nursing my overladen car along the slow lane of the M5. As I crossed the Severn Bridge into Wales, the sun pierced the cloud and lit my path. I groped for my sunglasses and decided it was time for a coffee.

I'd planned to stay at a friends house near Swansea for a night before heading over to Pembrokeshire for the final leg of my journey, a short boat ride to Skomer Island. As I was queuing for an overpriced but overdue Costa coffee my phone rang. It was Eddie, one of the island wardens.

He casually explained that the Trust's boat was still being repaired and might not be ready by Tuesday. However, by the time it might be fixed a windy weather system was on its way that might create a sea state too dangerous for any trips to the island. I might be marooned on the mainland for as long as a week.

After all the stresses and worries of packing and moving I thought I took this all quite well. At least I'd be able to go to the Trusts' offices and meet some other staff, do some shopping for the island, catch up with old friends in Aberystwyth and maybe squeeze in another surf.

But really all I wanted to do was get to Skomer and start working before the first guests arrive...

Leaving

So far 2014 has been a year of arrivals and departures. Airports. Train stations. Long goodbyes. It’s been a whirlwind. Starting in Senegal, then Norfolk, continuing in Bruxelles and finally in Woolacombe, it seems all I’m doing is saying farewell to people and places that hold a special place in my heart.

I approached the New Year with a determination to move back into conservation work. I’ve had an amazing time the past few years working by the beach in North Devon and travelling in the winters. But after meeting some inspiring people in Senegal I realised that I missed the challenges of my old job. I realised that one passion had been shelved in favour of another. Surfing had bullied its way into the forefront of my mind. So it was time for a change.

I did not expect to be offered an interview and then a job from the first application form I sent off. I did not expect to be going back to Wales. I did not expect to be trading one small island for another. And now as the date to move to Skomer draws close I still do not know what to expect.

So here I am sitting in the departures lounge of Bruxelles Airport thinking about all the leaving I’ve done already. And now I’ve got more to do. I’ve got a weekend of goodbyes in Woolacombe ahead. I’ve got to load up my little car and chart a course to Pembrokeshire. I’m going to miss North Devon beach life, but something tells me I’ll see it again. I’m not going to surf much in the next few years (and I’ve surfed a lot!) but it’s time for change.

Am I ready for moving to a remote island off Wales? I think so. I don’t know. Somebody tell me! I want to get lost in the new job, live the work, meet amazing wildlife, raise awareness, develop the business. But I’m shadowed by a few doubts. Questions I can’t cast any light on until I get to Skomer. So I’m coming armed with train schedules, flight plans, taxi numbers and mobile broadband. Tools to help me stay in touch with Bruxelles, with Woolacombe, with Senegal, with everywhere. A connection to what was before and what is yet to come.

an article about a surfing adventure

Divine Inspiration in Senegal

 

It must have been a writer who named a hurricane sized low pressure system Hercules. For journalists and the surf media it was like manna from heaven as pens and keyboards around Europe were dripping metaphors. But trying to find an easy, slick metaphor that worked with West Africa proved difficult. The old gods don’t hold much sway in Senegal, an Islamic country where despite the modernity and fast paced development of its capital, Dakar, people still go to see the witch doctor when they’re sick, and still wear charms to ward off evil spirits.

The swell size and power was forecast to be on a Hawaiian scale. Long lulls in these high period swells can be fatally deceptive. Jesper, the manager of Ngor Island Surf Camp and our guide, remembered that the last swell this size had claimed the lives of a score of local fishermen whose ocean going pirogues could not navigate the perilous shorebreak. It seemed patronising but we surfers were warning fishermen not go out on the biggest day of the swell. But these hard working guys would probably go anyway, or they might not make any money that day. We hoped they would return safe. Inshallah.

The day before the swell peaked we paddled out at N’gor Right, the swell magnet of Dakar and the spot that can hold the largest of swells. Big sets poured in from the north while north trade wind backed off under the weight of a heavy sky. Only a few of us staying at the camp wanted any of what Ngor Right was dishing out. This was far from the playful looking surf discovered by the makers of the original Endless Summer. Tyron and Dave from Newquay, a German transplant to Portugal called Marc, an Irish-Scottish mongrel known forevermore as Hellman, and myself paddled out. After some lurching, heavy drops and some good old fashioned beatings we eventually submitted to a monster set that nearly closed out the channel from the island to the mainland. Washed up, tired and tense with anticipation for the next day, the crew retired to the surf camp.

When we returned we found Jesper busy on the phone planning an adventure for us. He was organising us an off-road vehicle and a driver and sending us south of Dakar to an area known as the Petite Cote. Given the forecast we had agreed to roll the dice and go exploring, hoping to find some waves in an area known to be inconsistent. With an early departure, a dawn high tide and a big swell, Jesper was worried about safely crossing the normally placid waters of the channel between Ngor Island and the Ngor village. We’re going to need a bigger boat, he had said, and was booking one for pre-dawn start. We cracked open a well-earned beer and enjoyed that most Senegalese of dishes; thiebou dienne. The large communal plates of fried rice, spicy fish and fresh vegetables finished us off for the night. Or so we thought, as Jesper produced a cooler full of booze. It was his birthday and he didn’t need to persuade us too hard to help him celebrate.

At five the next morning we arrived at the beach still fighting the effects of sleep and a few too many of the local beers. A boat was waiting for us but as we stumbled onto the sand we saw it thrown up the sand by a surging wave, the local boatman riding its stern like a figurehead in the night. It was a scene that didn’t inspire confidence. As the call to prayer from the muezzin in the village drifted across the bay there were some anxious looking faces. The boat driver barked at us, and we were herded onto the boat and calmly steered between the rocks to the beach in Ngor village.

We loaded our gear onto the 4x4 and blazed a trail through the early morning traffic. An hour later we arrived at the reef we’d scouted the day before. The early offshore breeze carried a chill so we warmed up with coffee and peered through the pre-dawn gloom at the surf. During the midnight high tide the waves had scoured out trenches from the top of the beach ridge and thrown debris inland. It looked like tons of sand had been moved around. Evidence of Hercules at work.

The sun rises quickly in Africa. That morning the only things moving quicker were the surfers getting changed once we’d seen what awaited us. A small point of reef was setting up overhead A-frame waves. The left was fast, with a bowly, hollow take off followed by a playful wall about a hundred meters long. Hellman and his goofy footed companion Marc ran down the beach at the sight of it.

Although the paddle out was easy, it was quite long so a couple of us hitched a ride out to the peak.  Our second boat ride of the morning was just as hair raising as the first. We hopped in with the local fishermen after helping push their pirogues to the water’s edge. They launched their clumsy looking craft through the head high shorebreak with a steely determination and ancient skill. In this part of Senegal, the villages depend on their fishermen for food and income and have done for centuries. Their pirgoues are made from hollowed out tree trunks, a classic design given a modern lease of life by some battered looking outboard engines.

We jumped into the water, waved goodbye to our new friends and paddled over to the peak. The right had a big first wall with carving and cutback sections before reforming on the inside as a long steep hollow section followed by a fun shorebreak. The right was around one hundred and fifty meters. If you could design and engineer a surfbreak it would look like this. Some of the guys snuck into a few tubes, Tyron was giving lessons in roundhouse cutbacks and everyone was feeling blessed to be here. I was sat in the line-up wondering who to thank; Hercules, Allah, or Jesper for convincing us to gamble.

We had left our gear and thermos flasks in a local fishing hut under the watchful eye of the elders. The village kids, being kids, were cheeky but curious and would love to help you wax your board or rinse the sand off your wetsuit. My ear plugs were a source of great amusement. If the kids got too close, however, the elders would bark a few harsh words of Wolof and scatter them. After a few minutes they kids would regroup to push their boundaries once again.

Needing a drink I asked one of the elders where I could buy some bottled water. He quickly enlisted a tall teenager to be my guide and take me through the rabbit warren of dusty streets. Laden with bottles, the lad wanted to carry them for me back to the beach. After talking about school and football in my basic French, the only thanks he wanted was the answer to this question; “what do I have to do to become a footballer in Europe?”. I didn’t know what to say. The hospitality, friendliness and generosity of the Senegalese still takes me by surprise. Visitors with are often invited to join in with a big family lunch or shown around a village by its proud residents. It is often humbling.

Back at the beach and it was time for surf four of the day. A few other surfers from Dakar had arrived but only surfed the right so our crew took turns on the left. I couldn’t help thinking how busy this place would be if it was anywhere else in the world. A US Marine from California had also made the trek down to the spot. On a break from a posting in Mali, he was wide eyed at the quality of the surf and compared the spot to Trestles. The spot is no secret, but it is rarely surfed as it sits in the shadow of the Dakar peninsular. It works from waist high up and breaks good less than twenty times a year in these big wrapping swells or good south swells. This was an exceptional day. The overcast, cloudy conditions kept the winds glassy until dusk, while the sets kept coming and coming.

Meanwhile back in Dakar the Hercules swell was wrapping into some of the breaks on the south coast of the Almadies peninsular. One spot there sits under the two watchful minarets of a huge mosque. It is a Herculean setting if ever there was one. It too is a sleeping giant of a wave. Frequently breaking around head high in large north west swells, it really needs a powerful swell to clear the rocky, urchin crusted reef and show its class. Reports from that day told of overhead to double overhead rights peaking up and barrelling for a hundred meters into the channel. Some of the local crew were running the show. We checked it out the day after the peak of swell and scored some intense rides over the shallow reef. Falling at the end section or getting caught inside by a big set is not really an option here. Everyone gets an urchin when they surf here. It is the price you must pay to whichever god you choose to follow.

Hercules had certainly flexed his muscles, damaging coastal areas in northern Europe and drenching the coast of Morocco, while the waves in Senegal snuck in under the radar of the surf community. Ngor Right and a left hander across the bay from Ngor Island can hold huge swells and could have been towed into that day. It was breaking at least four or five times overhead, with no wind and in warm water. While the big wave crews charged Mullaghmore and Belharra, and the sheltered spots of Europe were filled to bursting point, we found quiet perfection and a warm welcome.

As Hercules fades into legend, its might and power have left scars some coastal communities, while its waves have been surfed, documented and immediately displayed to the voyeuristic surf media consumers. We are a bit late in sharing the story of Hercules from Senegal. But then this is Senegal, things work slowly down here and a little patience goes a long way when you’re working in African time.

 

Andy Bramwell

January 2014

Things I will miss....

So I'm moving to an island without mains electricity and only accessible by a boat from the mainland. For some people that would sound very daunting and a tad inconvenient. However after spending two months working on N'Gor Island off Dakar in Senegal I feel very prepared for this back to basics approach. Some things I know I can live without;  I haven't owned a TV for several years, I don't eat out very often, I'm not much of a shopper.

Checking the surf at N'Gor Island.


But there are several things I will miss. Although I'll be surrounded by water there are no surf spots on Skomer Island so I will be missing what has been a driving force in my life for the past few years. I'll miss being able to get a cappuccino from the cafe round the corner. I'll miss my friends, both old and new. I'll miss full broadband internet and being able to watch surf and rugby highlights on demand. I'll miss trips to the pub.

I will miss surfing here. Woolacombe in North Devon.


It's really not a very long list. It's going to be an adventure, at least that's what I've been telling myself. And I'm looking forward to reawakening my love for wildlife and seabirds that has been put n the backburner somewhat in recent times.

I'll be moving to the island in mid March, possibly on the 18th. In the meantime I've got friends to say farewell to and a special person to spend some time with while I can.