From storm to sunshine: Puffin-watching on the Isle of May
Puffins, with their endearing clumsiness on land and their gracefulness in the water, embody the contrasts of nature. From late April through August, Atlantic Puffins come ashore to nest on islands, spending the rest of the year far out at sea
The morning started with an ominous grey sky and a choppy sea. It echoed the state of my mind: pressed under deadline, tired of complex coding, and worried about the events unfolding in Bangladesh.
I was on a pre-scheduled trip to the Isle of May — my third visit to the tiny islet off the eastern coast of Scotland. My goal was specific: to spend time photographing puffins.
I spent the other two rounds for other island specialties — Razorbills and Guillemots. I thought it would be a breather. But the weather did not share my views.
As we left the harbour at Anstruther, the waves seemed determined to toss us back to shore, spraying us with cold seawater. I noticed two people turning pale, clearly struggling with seasickness. The thought of turning back never crossed my mind, but I could not feel the usual zeal of a wildlife encounter. I sat tight and clung to the rail, bracing against the elements.
Keep updated, follow The Business Standard's Google news channel
Razorbills and Guillemots had left, out in the rough Atlantic, done with the breeding. But there they were: the puffins. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them, dotted the cliffs and grassy slopes, their colourful beaks and comical expressions standing out against the landscape.
For nearly an hour, our boat battled the waves as if the sea itself were testing our resolve. But as we approached the Isle of May, a small miracle happened: the clouds began to part, and the first rays of sunlight broke through, casting a golden hue over the island. It was as if the island was welcoming us, its rugged beauty suddenly illuminated in the warm light of a now-clear sky.
Stepping onto the Isle of May, the transformation was complete. The wind, which had been howling through the boat's rigging, softened to a gentle breeze, and the sea, so fierce just moments before, calmed to a tranquil shimmer. The sun, now fully out, bathed the island in light, revealing the vibrant green of the grassy slopes and the white-and-black silhouettes of seabirds soaring overhead.
As I walked along the well-trodden paths of the island, the stormy voyage quickly became a distant memory. The Isle of May, now basking in sunlight, felt like a different world — a peaceful sanctuary.
Razorbills and Guillemots had left, out in the rough Atlantic, done with the breeding. But there they were: the puffins. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them, dotted the cliffs and grassy slopes, their colourful beaks and comical expressions standing out against the landscape.
The puffins were busy with the last leg of this year's breeding. All adults were returning from the sea with beaks full of Sand Lances, a primary puffin food. The fledged young were perched at the entrances to their burrows, others were waddling across the ground. The young were huddled together, keeping a wary eye on the large gulls seeking chances to swoop in.
As I watched, a puffin landed awkwardly nearby, its orange feet skidding on the grass before it balanced itself and trotted off toward a burrow. The scene was utterly charming, and I found myself smiling at their antics, the tension melting away with each passing moment. I happily started pressing the shutter.
The transformation of the day from stormy to sunny mirrored the experience of watching these birds. Puffins, with their endearing clumsiness on land and their gracefulness in the water, embody the contrasts of nature, just as the Isle of May does with its wild weather and serene beauty. With the sun now high in the sky, the island felt alive with activity, every puffin's movement a testament to the resilience and adaptability of nature.
By midday, the sun was warm on my face, and the island was buzzing with life. I spent hours watching the puffins, fascinated by their behaviour. I saw pairs greeting each other with affectionate beak taps, others carefully tending to their burrows, and more still taking off from the cliffs, their wings beating rapidly as they headed out to sea in search of food. It was a busy puffin city.
The scheduled hour had passed quickly, and soon it was time to leave the island. As the boat pulled away from the Isle of May, I looked back at the now-distant cliffs, the puffins just speck against the bright green of the island. The rough seas and grey skies that had greeted us on our journey over were now replaced by calm waters and a brilliant blue sky. It was as if the Isle of May had tested our mettle and, finding us worthy, rewarded us with a day of perfect weather and unparalleled wildlife viewing.
As we cruised back towards the mainland, the sea gently rocking the boat, I thought about the contrast between the start of the day and its end. The stormy morning had given way to a serene afternoon, just as the choppy sea had turned into a smooth, sunlit expanse. The sea was still calm, the sun still shining, my camera full of crisp puffin photos, and I felt a deep sense of contentment. The rough journey was worth it — a reminder that the greatest rewards often follow the toughest challenges and that wilderness offers the best of those rewards.
The island became a blur on the horizon, but the drive to disappear into distant wild places was thrumming stronger than ever.
