Ringing Storm Petrels at Point Lynas

Yesterday a friend of mine who is a ringer asked me if I'd like to go with him to Point Lynas on Anglesey to ring a few storm petrels. I jumped at the chance straight away. Yes it was going to be a late night, but hopefully it would be a tremendous experience. So we set off from St Helens at about 7:00pm, and finding clear roads we made good time, to arrive at Point Lynas with still plenty of daylight remaining, allowing us to set up the net with ease and safety.

We were on a headland, miles from anywhere, about 20 feet above sea level, in a beautiful location. Choughs flew overhead and we could see Gannets out at sea. As we scanned the sea for shearwaters, a Harbour Porpoise broke the surface in the rapidly fading light.

Twenty minutes after we arrived, the net was up, about 10 feet high, stretched across poles about 30 feet apart. Next came the sound system! A portable CD player with two impressive looking speakers attached, which were positioned behind the net. Then we sat and waited. Gradually it got darker and darker. I could still occasionally make out the silhouette of the harbour porpoise on the flat calm of the sea, and the occasional Curlew or Oystercatcher flew over calling, but I was struck by how silent it was, just the very gentle lapping of the waves on the rocks, as several pipistrelle bats flew around and the lights from distant towns began to come on.

Then at about 10:30, the time had come, and on went the CD. What a bizarre and eerie experience! The silence was shattered by the purring and chuckling of petrels. We had two species calling from the speakers, Storm and Swinhoes, the latter having only ever been recorded in Britain on a handful of occasions, but almost all at ringing sessions such as ours, so we thought it had to be worth a try. I've heard petrels calling at close range before, from my visit to St Kilda in 1987, when we would sit on the edge of the cliffs at night and listen to both Storm and Leach's Petrel.

At first there was nothing, except the bats, which flew so close to the net, but miraculously managed to avoid going in (although one did hit the net later, which looked bigger and we thought might have been Noctule). Then suddenly, from nowhere, there was a bird in the net. My friend  went over to it, and yes, we had a Storm Petrel. We had a quick look at it, before he popped it into a bag. Now we could see that as well as the bats, there were also birds flying around us, Storm Petrels. By about 11:30 we had three petrels in bags, and went to ring them, behind a gorse bush about 50 metres from the net. 

In the torch light we could see as my friend ringed each bird in turn and made various notes. Amazingly small and delicate birds to ride out the fiercest storms at sea, they fit the same size ring as would fit a Blue Tit! Then he allowed us to take one or two photos, but not too many, not wanting to distress the bird more than necessary, and finally he allowed us to smell the birds. A strange but not unpleasant smell of the seaside! Then the birds were put back in the bags and taken to the release site. No torches were allowed at the release site so as not to dazzle the bird before it flew. 

I was told me to put my hands together to make a shallow cup and he gently placed a Storm Petrel in my hands, pointing it out to sea. The bird sat quietly, not seeming too worried, for about a minute, free to go whenever it wanted to, occasionally gently pecking my hand, but not in anger, more inquisitively. Then it stretched it's wings and fluttered away out to sea and was lost to sight in the darkness. In total we caught 10 Storm Petrels, before packing up early at 12:45. I was in bed for 3:30am, not a bad price to pay for the experience of a life time!

It had been a flat, almost still night, no sign of a storm, yet at least 10 birds came close enough in shore at the point where we were to hear the call and be trapped. How many more must there be out there? Apparently they come close in shore at night to feed.

Montagu's Harrer, Reed's Moss, Rainford

I was on my bike, riding down the track that goes across Reed's moss, when I saw a long tailed, long winged bird being mobbed by Lapwings. At first I thought it was a falcon, but then I saw its white rump and 'fingers' and I realised it was a ring-tailed harrier. Its wings were very slender, it had a very light flight and its secondary coverts and body were very rufous and unstreaked. It had Montagu’s Harrier written all over it!

It flew right over my head, chased by Oystercatchers, Lapwings and even a yellow wagtail joined in, and then it flew away into the distance, before turning and flying back again, allowing me great views. It was clearly a young female Montagu's! Then it headed off north, and was seen again about half an hour later from the Old Coach Road by another observer. By incredible co-incidence, the birder who saw it on the Old Coach Road phoned me last night on a completely unrelated subject. I had never spoken to him before last night!! 

Both photos in this post are of a juvenile Montagu's harrier which was at Marshside in late August 2025.

Memories of St Kilda

Photo: Boreray and the stacs from Conachair
St. Kilda 1987

In June 1987 I ignored a mates advice that as a young man in my mid-twenties I "shouldn't be going camping to St Kilda, I should be going on a lads holiday with him to Malta" and decided instead to head for the island on the edge of the world. Looking back on it, it was one of the greatest experiences of my life. Most of my photos from that period are on slides which I very rarely look at, but recently I've been thinking that I need to get copies of them before either the slides deteriorate or my ancient projector stops working. So I present them here for posterity with a short(ish) write up before my memory fades also. The photos are of generally poor quality, but they've been kept in the attic for 30 years and subject to extremes of temperature, so I'm happy enough with them. I kept meticulous notes of my trips even then, including departure and arrival times, weather and exactly what birds and plants we saw and that's what I've based this post on.

There were 12 of us on a private charter organized and led by my friend John who knew more about St Kilda than was good for anybody. This was to be about his sixth visit to the archipelago and it certainly wasn’t his last, it was more-or-less an annual event for him back in the 1980’s. He had arranged for our party to camp on the archipelago's main island Hirta for nine nights but it was a long journey from Oban and would also require two days each way on a boat.

Our boat was a converted fishing boat, the "Danbrit". Looking at these photos now I find it quite alarming that we were about to undertake a 26 hour journey in this especially since a large part of the journey would be out into the open Atlantic ocean! I think that's John sitting on the quay but I can't be sure.

These were our sleeping quarters on the boat. We were to spend at least one night each way in here, but St Kilda is a difficult place to land due to swell and wind, and it was perfectly possible that when we arrived we wouldn't be able to dock for a day or two.

White-beaked dolphins from Good Shepherd III

On May 25th 1986 myself and two mates were on board the legendary Good Shepherd III, on our way back to Sumburgh from a week on Fair Isle and looking forward to 10 days on Shetland. By lucky chance this was also the last scheduled sailing of Good Shepherd III which was about to be replaced by Good Shepherd IV. 

We met Good Shepherd IV half way back and the two boats circled around each other with the crews in celebratory mood, before we continued on our way. Almost as if they were escorting us back, 3 white-beaked dolphins rode the bow of Good Shepherd III. Still the only white-beaked dolphins I've ever seen for sure.

Good Shepherd III, pictured here at Sumburgh, had legendary status due to the rough seas on the 2.5 hour journey. It was a converted fishing boat not really designed to carry passengers. Good Shepherd IV is luxury in comparison. At the time of writing (24/07/2025) GS IV is still operating, though I have heard that it is soon to be replaced by Good Shepherd V.

White-beaked dolphin riding the bow of Good shepherd III. This was my first experience of this behaviour and probably the thing that got me hooked on cetaceans. 

After Fair Isle we spent two weeks on Shetland where one of the highlights was the long staying black-browed albatross in the gannet colony at Herma Ness on Unst.

Me and Jon at Herma Ness, with Muckle Flugga lighthouse behind.

Little Whimbrel, connecting the past with the present

Little whimbrel, Blakeney harbour, Norfolk
24th August 1985 © David Cottridge.

In late August 1985 my dad and I set out for Norfolk for a long weekend birding. It was one of our favourite birding places and late August was a favourite time of year because it gave us the opportunity to see a few early autumn migrants whilst at the same time many of the summer birds would still be around. We booked into the White Horse Inn at Blakeney for the nights of 24th & 25th August. My dad must have been keen to go because 24th August was his wedding anniversary though that didn't really register too much with me at the time!

Back in 1985 the North Norfolk coast and in particular Cley-next-the-sea was still the epicenter of mainland birding in the UK. Bird information services were still in their infancy and Nancy's cafe was at the height of it's powers and nearby Walsey Hill was also an important source of information. In the mid 1980's it sometimes seemed that I spent every weekend with my mates in the autumn in this area and it turned into a really good social event. Sometimes we'd sleep in the car, sometimes a tent, other times in a B&B, very occasionally a hotel.

This was different though, this was with my dad and I expected the pace to be a bit more relaxed. Dad was a keen birder, he had been since at least his early twenties, but he didn't really do twitches and he was what I would call a selective birder, he didn't like seeing birds out of what he considered to be their proper context and for him the overall experience was everything not just seeing the bird. So for example he turned down the opportunity to come with me to see a juvenile great northern diver in the midlands because he wanted his first great northern to be a summer plumage bird in the Scottish Highlands. He did however love the North Norfolk coast, though the irony was not lost on him that many of the migrants we saw such as 1st winter barred warblers and ortolans were just the east coast equivalent of a juvenile great northern in the midlands, but this was different because the North Norfolk coast was meant to be full of migrants, that's what it was all about, that's what he wanted to experience and so in that respect they weren't out of context.

Memories of the North West Highlands

In early 1979, my Dad suggested to me that during the summer we should visit North West Scotland. Specifically he wanted to see the Inverpolly region of Sutherland and Wester Ross, but also wanted to re-visit the Central Highland region of Speyside, which he had previously experienced in the mid-1950’s. During that earlier visit, he also spent time on the west coast at Loch Carron.

We were both birdwatchers, though my interest had waned somewhat during my mid-teens, and by 1979 it was only just being re-kindled. My Dad’s inspiration came from, as usual, a book entitled “Where to watch Birds in Britain and Ireland” by John Gooders, and also I suppose from his memories of his previous visit.

On that occasion he had travelled to Aviemore by train (he worked on the railways so it was his best option), spent a few days there, and then continued to Kyle of Lochalsh, before taking to his bicycle and staying in a guesthouse at Loch Carron. At Kyle of Lochalsh he took the short ferry journey to Kyleakin and spent a few hours on Skye, but didn’t venture more than a mile or so on the island.

It’s difficult to imagine now what it must have been like for him in the 1950’s. Communications were almost non-existent by modern day standards, no mobile phones, no Internet and no email. Very few homes would have had their own telephone, and public telephones would have been very sparse, especially in such a remote region. Many homes would not have owned a television, and would rely on radio for their news and entertainment.

Tourism in Scotland would have been very much in its infancy, and there would have been very few guesthouses, and probably no holiday homes. At that time, locals were locals, and not wealthy outsiders. They were very religious people who would have lived in their villages and cottages for generations, and not simply people who had retired there or were retreating from the ‘rat race’.

Many people probably could not afford to, and probably had no desire to travel very far. Distances were vast by British standards, with sometimes 10 miles or more between houses outside of the towns and with very few people owning cars, they would have had very little contact with people from the outside World. Combined with a limited experience of television, they would know very little about life outside the Highlands.

The railways had of course brought a glimpse of the 20th Century to these remote places, and towns such as Aviemore and Kyle of Lochalsh would have undoubtedly prospered and grown as a result, but away from these oases, life would have continued very much as it had done for generations.

To my Dad, it must have seemed like he was travelling almost to the edge of civilisation, a journey into a great wilderness. There were no television documentaries to show him what to expect, and no glossy magazines with trip reports and full spread photos. His knowledge of the region would have been based almost entirely on what he read in books and had seen on maps, and he would probably have not seen more than a handful of black and white photographs of the area.

At that time, most working class people did not travel very far, so by travelling from Liverpool to the Highlands of Scotland he was probably considered an oddity, both by those he was leaving behind and by the people he was visiting. In the mid 1950’s, most Liverpudlians considered a week across the water in New Brighton to be an extravagant holiday.

So why did he do it? Why did he go? Well I guess he was always an oddity. In the years immediately following his discharge from the Royal Navy at the end of the Second World War, he spent many weekends walking and cycling in the mountains of North Wales, spurred on by his books. His favourite area was the Clwydian Mountains around Mold, and he would often take the ferry from Liverpool to Birkenhead, and then cycle into Wales.

At the same time, his interest in bird watching grew, inspired by local naturalist Eric Hardy, who wrote a weekly wildlife column in the Liverpool newspaper, the Daily Post, and by the books and paintings of Peter Scott, whom he considered a kindred spirit, due to them both spending time in the Mediterranean during the War on Motor Torpedo Boats (MTB’s). He became a regular visitor to the Wirral coast, at Heswall, Thurstaston, Hoylake and of course Hilbre.

Finally of course, he had the opportunity to travel. He worked on the railways before the War, and continued his career with them after it. He was used to travelling by train, and his journey to Aviemore and beyond would have been free to an employee of the railways. The journey was longer, but travelling by train and bicycle, the cost would have been little more than a couple of weekends away in Wales.

He told me tales of his visit, of locals peering from behind curtains on Sunday morning, amazed that he was venturing out on the day of prayer, and of the birds that he saw. Golden Eagle, Ptarmigan, Greenshank and Crested Tits in places with evocative sounding names such as Rothiemurchus Forest and the Lhairig Ghru. I still find it amazing that back in the mid 1950’s, a working class scouse lad in his mid twenties, from Solon Street, Edge Hill was watching Ptarmigan, alone, below the mighty cliffs of Beinn MacDui, Britain’s second highest Mountain, 10 miles from the nearest house, while most of his mates were buying “Kiss Me Quick” hats in New Brighton, Southport or Blackpool.

Our goal in 1979 was to see summer plumaged divers on their breeding lochs, and in Speyside we hoped to pick up a few speciality species such as Crested Tit.

I can’t remember exactly what my reaction was when he suggested visiting Wester Ross and Sutherland, but I agreed almost immediately. At the time I was not so obsessed with bird watching that I was desperate to see any particular species of bird, I just saw what I saw and didn’t worry about the rest. However, divers were different. I was probably inspired by the Arthur Ramson book “Great Northern!”, which I had read during my school days, and which tells the tale of a group of youngsters who travel by boat to the North West Coast of Scotland, discover the nest of a Great Northern Diver, and set about protecting it from egg collectors. Divers have a primitive, almost prehistoric feel about them, and have always been amongst my favourite birds.

Finally, I had an interest in mountain walking, having previously walked in the Lake District with my Dad. Even so, at 17 I was approaching a time in my life when most people are more interested in the opposite sex and socialising, rather than spending a week away with their Dad, especially to such a remote area, so I guess I was something of an oddity myself.

We decided to go for six days in July 1979. We chose July, because at the time I was working in a factory, and was committed to taking the last two weeks in July as holiday. Based on my Dad’s memories of the place, we were expecting to rough it a bit and didn’t really know what to expect. Therefore for the first time, my Mum was not going to come with us, which partly explains the decision to go for just six days.