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...
Wednesday 22 October 2014
Monday 13 October 2014
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
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
Sunday 17 August 2014
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.
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.
Monday 11 August 2014
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.
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.
Sunday 10 August 2014
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.
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.
Saturday 9 August 2014
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.
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.
Monday 28 July 2014
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.
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