There are I am sure, many wonderful areas of Shetland that we didn't reach on the last trip, but one of the more obvious targets for wildlife was Hermaness. It involves a pretty long walk to reach the cliffs, and as that would have ruled Ian out from getting there, we chose to avoid it. But not this time.
It was quite a long drive from our base on the Mainland, but with fair weather along the way, it was even enjoyable just being sat waiting for the ferries, as the gannets would be diving close to the shore, and if successful, they had to avoid the attention of the bonxies waiting in the wings.
The reserve is on the northern end of Unst, and after driving right over the island, it's a case of parking up and then making the walk across the moors to the cliffs where the majority of the action is. Thankfully there are now boardwalks leading the way over the rather boggy ground and along the way, the route bisects a colony of nesting bonxies, which provides a great excuse for stopping for a rest!
The boardwalk eventually peters out and it's a relatively gentle slope up to the cliff tops; the view alone is worth stopping and breathing in for a short while. I can imagine that on a wild day it would be pretty terrifying up there, but it was breezy and sunny when we arrived, with blue skies and richer navy seas below. Gorgeous.
And greeting us as we arrived was a puffin, who had popped up out of a burrow to welcome the new visitors.
Having been before, Andy advised which way to head for the various bird colonies, which is where we broke up into groups. Having had my annual fill of gannets at Troup Head earlier in the year, I wanted to look at bonxies, fulmars and maybe more puffins. The fulmars were everywhere, and surprised me several times by appearing right in front of me, floating on air-currents, rising up the steep cliffs.
Finding a sheltered spot out of the wind was an issue though, and in some places it was difficult to keep steady, even when kneeling down and using the tripod for support! As such, trying to track the puffins as they hurtled in from fishing, usually low down then up at the last moment, was near impossible. I tried using my 100-400mm for a while, but it just didn't seem able to consistently lock on to the birds against the changing background, and I chose to head elsewhere for slightly easier targets. Besides, my eyes were already stinging from the wind.
With all the flowers decorating the slopes, Kate and I had hoped to get some shots of the birds amongst the vibrant colours, but getting a good view to the birds was also tricky. We could see them from afar, but by the time we were close enough for a shot, the angle of the shot would be either awkward or the cliffs themselves made the shot too dangerous to reach for.
By the time I had ambled along to where the Muckle Flugga lighthouse comes into view, the others were heading back. Kate had already decided to meet Paula again where the gannets were skimming the cliff tops, and both Andy and Lyndsey had struggled to find the numbers of puffins they'd seen on their previous trip, and were going to try further back along the cliffs where we'd first arrived. I wanted to look over the end of the cliffs before also returning, so trudged onwards. The views of the massive gannet colonies on the rocks jutting from the sea here were fabulous, so I sat down for a while, to eat lunch and simply enjoy the spectacle.
Some of the fulmars amused me too, when they reacted with real venom to any strangers arriving at their nest sites.
It was time to make the walk back, and with it being such a remote reserve, there was hardly a soul around, at least at this far end of it. I had noticed though, about 200 yards ahead of me, a couple had struggled to cross one of the many boggy channels leading down the slopes and by the time I reached it, I could see that the mud was deep and I'd not be able to skip over whilst carrying so much gear. So I tried higher up the hill. There was plenty of boggy areas all around, with the bright green sphagnum moss covering it over, but jutting out into one area was a strip of grass. Safe to cross here, I thought.
With hindsight I should have prodded it with a tripod leg, but I didn't, and stepped on to it. The grass immediately gave way and my foot, and then leg sank into the bog, stopping halfway up my thigh. Desperate not to drop my camera in, as it was balanced on my shoulder, I had to lean back and that put my other leg in too. Great. It was vile, wet and cold.
And there was no-one nearby either. Carefully choosing a soft area to drop my camera and chuck my rucksack on to, I then tried to pull out my right leg. It was stuck. I could move my left, but it felt like I'd lose my boot if I tried any harder. What an utter pillock, I thought.
No service on my phone of course, I realised I'd have to get out without any help. Not that the others would have helped, having admitted later that they'd have taken a photo of my predicament instead!
By twisting myself over, I was able to start to pull my leg out, and by grabbing tufts of grass, I eventually unplugged myself from it, and crawled free, standing to assess the mess I had made. Both boots were full of bog-water and my trousers were covered in mud. Stylish.
This of course made the walk back delightful, having to stop every 15 mins or so to remove my boots and wring out my socks. But the strong wind blowing was now a benefit, as it helped dry out my trousers!
After rejoining the others, and they'd stopped laughing, we strolled (and squelched) back to the boardwalk to photo the bonxies for a while. Most of them seemed to be sat on eggs, but we were fairly sure some had started to hatch, judging by the sounds from the nest sites, and the actions of the parent birds. For such fearful birds, the bonxies were so gentle and tender with each other and with what was going on amongst the cotton grasses at their feet.
They were also keen to keep clean, and made good use of the many small pools around the area to wash in.
Unfortunately, while the boardwalk helps people safely reach the cliffs, it doesn't allow for alternative routes, so while we were all lying flat on it trying to photograph one bonxie as it washed, another visitor inadvertantly spooked it as he walked up the path. Such is life!
We turned our attentions to another pair nearby, and enjoyed watching them preen, stretch and yawn, as well as reacting to other skuas passing a bit too closely overhead.
It was getting late though, and with two ferries to catch back to get home, where Magnus was preparing one of his legendary lamb roasts, we needed to get going.
It was difficult to drag myself away from watching these awesome birds, let alone persuade Andy too, but I was starting to feel slightly chilly after my mud-bath earlier, and needed to be sat down for a bit.
Hermaness is definitely somewhere I would like to return to again, and Unst in general too. Yet more reasons to return to Shetland... and the meal from Magnus? It was absolutely scrumptious!
So to Fetlar once more, and another attempt to get that monkey off my back; the red-necked phalarope. Last time I was in Shetland, not only did I manage to fail to connect with any red-necked phalaropes, but in the pursuit of them, also failed by literally minutes to see a pod of killer whales, that Ian and Kate enjoyed watching for several hours.
An early start to head out across the islands to reach Fetlar, driving through some pretty miserable weather along the way, though the ferry crossings were made in bright sunshine, giving us all hope for the day. Well aware of my desire to see the 'ropes, Paula drove straight over towards Loch Funzie where we bumped into Hugh Harrop's tour and the Urban Birder, David Lindo. Whilst chatting to them, I heard the news I had wanted to hear, phalaropes were around and we'd just missed them on the loch.
Or had we? Because eagle-eyed Lyndsey had spotted them on a small pool near the main loch, and without delay I found myself almost sprinting (a fast walk is my idea of that these days) towards the area, and suddenly I could see one, pottering around in amongst the long grasses of the pool, picking off insects.
It got better, there was another at the back of the pool too. Wonderful!
The four of us then chose sides of the pool to head to, with Andy and I trying to work out where the sun might appear if the blanket of clouds split open, and also whether we could get the birds against darker backdrops. Finally, to get low-level shots, we needed to be almost at water-level, which meant lying down in the mud and wet grass. A small hardship to endure to get the images of these quirky little birds.
Much like divers, I have seen plenty of them, but when they drop into the Midlands, they're rarely in summer plumage and on the odd occasion that happens, the birds are usually a country mile from the viewing position, with crowds of fans wanting a sighting, hence never allowing any opportunity for a closer view. But here, on Fetlar, I had two of them, on a pool smaller than my back garden.
The birds, both females, were happily wandering around the edges of the water, finding plenty of insects to eat, both from rocks and vegetation, and also from the surface of the water itself.
And much like those I have encountered closer to home, they weren't in the slightest bit bothered by us being near them; in fact, they walked so close at times, I felt like I could have reached out to stroke them. I didn't, as I thought that might be pushing my luck a bit too far.
In fact the only thing that seemed to unsettle them were the nervous dunlins also feeding on the same pool, which seemed to take flight every time a skua passed overhead.
Apart from the 'ropes coming too close at times to focus on, the other difficulty when shooting from ground-level is getting a clear line to the bird, and I frequently struggled to get a focus lock on, with grass or small rocks getting in the way. Thankfully the birds remained on the pool and while they came and went in terms of being on the right side of the pool, they gave great opportunities to photo them in vegetation, against light and dark backdrops, swimming and also perched on rocks, out of the water.
I could have spent the entire day lying there photographing the phalaropes, but one low-flying pass from a skua caused panic on the water and they, along with the dunlin and well hidden snipe, relocated elsewhere. Time to look at what else was on offer on Fetlar, now I had ticked one more item from my wildlife bucket list.
Red-throated divers were again nesting on the main loch, though this time towards the back, so I could lie down beside the road at the lochside, and try for shots of them. At times there were four adults on the loch, though never really very close. One drifted reasonably near when preening, and I was ready to grab some shots as it stretched its wings.
Hugh's group passed us again, and he mentioned that the airstrip area was well worth a look, so that's where we tried next. He was right, and within minutes of getting on to the track leading up the hill, we had seen golden and ringed plover, whimbrel and Arctic skuas. Excellent!
Staying in the car, we were treated to close views of the golden plovers as they scampered over to see what we were.
And even better, slightly further along, an Arctic skua perched on a small mound, simply watched us go by, and allowed us to get some frame-filling images.
Last time we were on Fetlar, Paula tricked Kate into taking a walk along a track near nesting bonxies, and poor Kate had had to take cover as one of the massive birds dive-bombed her. It was very amusing for us, at Kate's expense. This time we chose to drive along the track, and the bonxies (great skuas) seemed a lot more at ease with that decision, barely even bothering to look at us, let alone move.
Wanting to try again for some whimbrel shots, we returned to the airstrip area, though this time Kate and I chose to explore on foot, and were soon crawling along low down in the heather, trying to avoid treading on the many vibrant wild flowers dotted around, especially the orchids.
By now the sun had started to find a way through the clouds, and this gave us problems. One could be solved by walking right around the area to get the light behind me, but the other, the haze from the warming ground was not so easy to solve. However with no need to worry about the time, or fading light, it was a case of waiting and being persistent.
What amused me, was the number of times I tried for a whimbrel shot, then glanced elsewhere to find a golden plover had come over for a look.
Rejoining Andy and Lyndsey near the loch again, we turned our attention to a family of wheatears being fed around the ancient stone walls. The two adults were busy pouncing on insects, to take back to the fledglings, and each time, would pose on something high, to look for food. This gave us all great opportunities for images on both natural and man-made perches.
Lovely birds, and never ones to be overlooked in favour of the more specialist species up in Shetland.
That said, when a pale Arctic skua zipped overhead, I did get distracted for a moment. Fantastic predators.
Lyndsey and I then opted to take another look at Loch Funzie in the hope that a diver might have come a bit closer to the shore. On initial inspection we failed to see any close in, so I chose to lie down again at water-level near the road, whilst she tried to get some shots of a gull further along the shore. As she was doing so, I glanced across at her and saw a diver, pretty close in, in front on her. Peeved to say the least, I ignored my temptation to head over towards her, in case I spooked it.
Then, without warning it started to flap and run across the water. The diver, not Lyndsey...
I followed it with my camera and managed to get the whole sequence of it taking off.
It was only when I spoke to Lyndsey moments later that she admitted to having not even seen the diver until it had taken flight, and she was so annoyed with herself. These things happen in wildlife photography!
I stayed put near the loch, and hoped one of the other divers might come close. It did, eventually, but by then the clouds had returned, and I just couldn't get that rich redness of the neck to be captured that well on the shot.
With two ferries and a long drive ahead of us, we had to bid farewell to Fetlar, and head back home. But what a day we'd enjoyed on the island. Phabulous!
After the efforts of the longest day, we weren't keen on an early start, so Paula suggested we have a look around the Esherness area, at a leisurely pace. I was keen to remind myself of how high the cliffs are here, and why the photos of the waves crashing up and over the top during the winter were so spectacular. But I also hoped to see a few fulmars floating around on the updraughts, and of course the chance of skuas, especially Arctics, which are so exciting to watch.
After parking up, and nearly being blown off of my feet by the wind up there, I chose to head away from the lighthouse area and to the back of the cliffs, where I hoped it might be a little more sheltered. It was as I strolled back along the road that I spotted a red-throated diver drifting serenely along the edge of the loch up there, and it stole my attention completely. OK, the light wasn't anything to write home about, but I was soon using a drainage channel on the opposite side of the road to creep up closer, before scrambling across the road, keeping as low as possible, much to the amusement of anyone watching, as it appeared my legs had turned to uncontrollable jelly.
As was the norm on Shetland, I had no service on my phone, so couldn't alert the others to this chance, but I managed to spot Lyndsey wandering along the road, and attracted her attention. The diver didn't seem to be in any rush on the loch, and continued to slowly cruise along the shore, mostly with its eyes closed!
Eventually it seemed to wake up, and headed back out into the middle of the loch, where with the choppier waters, it was a job to see the bird, let alone get a sharp image. Annoying, as the sun briefly appeared as it went. As I wandered back to the lighthouse, Andy and Lyndsey drove past, perhaps to seek out some more divers, or maybe to find somewhere less breezy.
With the sun now out, Paula chose to drive Kate and me through some of the single track lanes nearby, and we were very pleased to spot an Arctic skua taking a bath in a small pool not far from the road.
Engaging first gear, Paula then headed up a very steep route to the top of one of the higher hills in the area. This not only provided great views of the surrounding areas, but also took us into the habitat of upland birds, and we were soon following golden plovers as they scuttled about amongst the rocks, calling, pausing picking off insects, before scurrying off again.
Plovers in general seem to be birds that are often curious of you, and provided that you're quiet and remain fairly still, they frequently wander over to have a closer look at you.
On my trips away for wildlife, each year and each location there seems to be a bird species that I see all the time. On Mull it has been grey herons, stonechats and pied wagtails over the years, and here in Shetland, it was the ringed plover. They were everywhere!
And seeing as they're so photogenic, I took advantage of them being close by. Much like a redshank perched beside the track back to the house as we arrived back home. A bit too close, if I'm being honest, for 700mm of lens!
Then it was back home to relax before what I hoped would be a more successful return to Fetlar...
Overnight the bright weather had given way to cloudy overcast conditions, which looked set to stay for the day. Andy had been in contact with a local wildlife enthusiast who I have admired for years (mainly with a hint of envy at the subject material he photographs on Shetland) John Moncrieff, or "Crieffy" as he prefers.
Last time I was on Shetland, I was with Ian Cook who went the extra mile, most days, to find otters on any lochs that looked suitable and with his hawk-like eyesight, we were very successful. This time though, it would be Crieffy showing us some locations for these elusive creatures, and after meeting and greeting, we followed him to an area where he had seen several otters the day before.
Scanning the water and the rocky shores of the lochs revealed nothing initially, so we took a stroll along the water's edge. And just before lunchtime we were all crouched down hiding our forms, watching a pair of otters fishing nearby. Much like on Mull, they only seemed to need to dive down once to catch something to eat. The waters must be rich with life here.
Otters use their sense of smell a great deal, not only for locating prey and avoiding danger, but also for marking territory and recognising other individuals in the area. One of the otters clambered out of the water and vanished into the large boulders beside the loch, appearing moments later to sniff out various scent marks (scats) left on the rocks.
Then with great agility, it was back to the task of finding dinner within the loch. Trying to follow the antics of a pair of otters is quite tricky, as they can appear and disappear at will. Hence it wasn't a huge surprise when I realised I hadn't spotted one that had actually climbed out of the water on to a barnacle-encrusted rock to consume a large fish it had caught.
Benefits of many eyes watching the action, and I was soon grabbing shots of the otter as it made light work of the fish, now it had its paws available on dry(ish) land.
Predicting where otters might decide to come ashore comes from experience, and I have quite a bit from trips to Mull, Skye and Shetland before, but nothing is quite as good as local knowledge from a guide like Crieffy, who accurately guessed where the otters would bring their catches, or try to return to a bolt-hole. This gave us great opportunities to see the otters close up! Never a bad thing.
After the pair of otters swam away and eventually out of sight, we diverted to grab a very tasty fish & chips dinner from Frankie's, and as the high tide started to recede, we relocated to another area, and took a lengthy wander along the edge of the water. It wasn't sunny but it was reasonably warm, and we were entertained by the terns, oystercatchers and ringed plovers nesting in the vacinity. All along the walk were signs of otters, with bits of crabs and urchins littering the rocks and grassy slopes, plus signs of their activities beside freshwater pools, possible holts and of course plenty of scat on the rocks and channels leading from the water.
As we headed back towards where we had parked, we spotted another otter, and again, Crieffy was on hand to suggest the best place to wait for it near the shore. The otter soon caught something a bit too slippery to deal with on the water, and brought it ashore.
Closer than before, I again made use of the silent shutter mode on the 7D Mk2, which unlike Andy's machine-gun 1DX made barely a sound as I grabbed shots of the otter nearby.
Whilst we were in the right place as far as wind direction was concerned, the otter could definitely hear the cameras occasionally, and looked over at us a couple of times. As we were hiding well, it carried on eating, giving us all great views.
Then, once back in the water, it performed the usual disappearing trick, though Andy spotted it some distance away shortly after, heading to another shore. They are masters of vanishing. Speaking of which, it was late afternoon and our guide for the day needed to head home. We thanked him for his help and tried to convey how pleased we were with the results of the day.
With no need to hurry back, we drove slowly around the area and Andy clocked another otter fishing out in the middle of one of the lochs. Gear grabbed, we headed down to the shore to watch, with Andy and Kate choosing to nestle amongst the shoreline boulders to wait, leaving me crouched on the headland, watching from above.
After a good while, the otter finally started to head in, but not with a catch. It was making a beeline to a small harbour, and as it dived each time, I scampered along the headland to follow it, playing statues just before I guessed it would surface. It's always a bit of a guessing game, but it worked here, and I was rewarded with fabulous views as the otter hauled itself out of the water, just within the confines of the harbour wall, and on to a large seaweed-covered rock.
My problem was getting a clear view though, as the wall was a smidge too high to see over, and way too loose to attempt to climb upon. Tip-toes and careful balancing of the lens, with a rather uncomfortable resting position on the end of the wall allowed me to just get the view I needed.
A benefit of my spot though, was that as well as being able to see the otter, I could also advise my fellow otter-fans as they approached from behind, of when they could get closer and when to pause. Thankfully the otter was more concerned with grooming and the noisy antics of a pipit nearby, to notice Andy and then Kate arriving at the wall.
Over a twenty minute period we were treated to wonderful views of the otter as it groomed, scratched and tried to get some sleep on the rock.
I think it may have been close to the pipit's nest as the bird made quite a racket, disturbing the otter from its sleep at times.
Eventually the otter decided it needed to head back to its holt, and slipped back into the water, and as usual, promptly vanished from sight completely. Time for us to head home, though not for long...
It was midsummer's day, or "Simmer Dim" as it is known in Shetland, and we were booked (thanks to Paula) on the trip to Mousa that evening, to witness the storm petrels at the broch on the island. This is an ancient Iron Age round stone tower, that the petrels have turned into a multi-storey nesting block, and becomes a hive of activity as soon as darkness falls. Problem was, given the location and the day, darkness would be in short supply that evening!
Even so, we set sail, with Paula eventually agreeing to come along too - she hates sailing, especially when the water is a bit choppy. Mousa was as I remembered, awash with calls of the seabirds, but somewhat boggier than last time, given the recent rains. As before, we weren't allowed to take flashguns along, so the trip would for the majority of us, be for viewing only. Kate, however, was armed with a night-vision scope from Bushnell, and as the night eventually drew in, made great use of it by videoing one of the petrels within the wall!
Despite it being midsummer, it was pretty chilly as we stood around watching the shadowy birds flutter in and out, somewhat resembling bats, and while the others remained at the broch for the last boat back, Paula and I strolled back to the quay. Wanting to get the crossing back to the mainland over and done with, she took the earlier boat, while I chose to stay on the quay alone, to wait for the last boat. To be honest, I wanted to savour the sights, sounds and scent of being on Mousa, and it was so tranquil being sat there in the dark, listening to the waves, the distant calls of restless birds and the splashes of a nearby seal doing a bit of night fishing.
The boat returned, and promptly took us all back to join Paula again, before we zipped back the house for a few hours sleep.
