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.