This was my second visit to a gannet colony, and I thought I knew what to expect. It had only been a few months since I stood in awe at Noup Head during my time on Orkney. Stepping out of the car, I looked around eagerly, hoping for that familiar and thrilling sight of diving gannets I’d missed so much. But instead, wagtails perched lazily on the wire were all that greeted me. That’s okay, I told myself. I can be patient. 

Gathering my gear from the boot and trying to shake off the fog from the long drive, I barely glanced at the information board – a decision I’d soon regret, but later appreciate. I was a woman on a mission. And that mission was to find gannets. 

As I wandered down the path to the cliff edge, a familiar scent hit me – a pungent, unmistakable musky aroma that wraps around you, clinging like sea mist. For some, it’s an offensive smell, chaotic and overwhelming. But to me, it screams adventure. It promises drama, movement, life. These promises are only further amplified by the relentless afternoon heat beating down on it. It surrounds me, quickening my steps, pulling me forward. Yet I still pause just in time to catch a swirling cloud of kittiwakes rising from the water’s edge. 

I follow the coastline, its jagged outline guiding my eyes. The kittiwakes form a living mass, moving as one. And suddenly I’m not in a rush anymore. Seeing this living ball of energy has stirred something in me and now I simply stand, soaking in nature’s beauty as it parades in front of me. I lift my camera, but no screen will ever do justice to this moment. 

Minutes pass. Just watching. Just being. Then, a lone gannet soars across my field of view, and the spell is broken.

I continue, only a short way along the path, before I reach the gate. That old sense of excitement starts to bubble up again. But something feels… different. The last time I stood somewhere similar to here, the air was alive with gannets, their numbers above the cliffs nearly as breathtaking as those nesting below. 

Now, the skies are oddly quiet. Only the kittiwakes and auks remain in flight, and a flicker of confusion settles at the edge of my thoughts. I push through the gate and stop, utterly puzzled. 

The cliffs are an amazing sight, no doubt the sheer number of razorbills and kittiwakes is breathtaking. But these are not my gannets. I pull out my phone and quickly scan the information I’d read about Troup Head. It seems my gannet scouting will have to continue. But knowing I’d already seen one or two earlier, I decide to stay. To sit. To not rush the moment at hand. After all, I remind myself this is still wild, still beautiful. Even if it’s not what I expected.

I traipse down over the rocks and follow the narrow path that stretches toward the ocean. From here, I can peer over the edge and watch the kittiwakes flying below, a view that leaves me momentarily speechless. 

They’re not a bird I’d ever really paid much attention to. But in this moment, suspended between cliff and sea, I’m captivated. When I returned home later, I made sure to learn more to do them justice. And what I found amazed me. 

These little gulls are the most sea-loving of all our gulls, spending their entire winters far out on the Atlantic. I found myself relating to that, the pull of the sea, the quiet resilience. They may seem like just another gull, but they are anything but. Small, yes. Ordinary-looking, perhaps. But utterly remarkable. I’ll never glance past them again. 

After nearly an hour of sitting and watching, soaking in the rhythm of wings and waves, I spot something different. Five gannets soaring in formation further out at sea, their long wings cutting through the air with such grace. They disappear behind the curve of the cliffs. 

Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for all along? 

Back through the gate, my eyes wander further up the path and there it is, a sign reading “Gannet Viewpoint” with a very useful arrow pointing onwards.  

Wow. I can certainly be oblivious when it suits me. 

As I make my way toward the colony, I think about how I’ve only seen two other people here so far. Maybe it’s because it’s mid-afternoon? Still, with such accessible beauty, I would’ve expected people to flock to the cliff’s edge for a chance to see these remarkable birds. 

But, and I admit this sheepishly, a small part of me is secretly pleased. It means, for this afternoon at least, I get them all to myself. 

And then, there it is before me. Rows upon rows of gannets.

And somehow, these ones feel even more special than the ones I saw in Orkney. Maybe it’s because this time, I was ready. Ready for that familiar, pungent smell to engulf me further. Ready for the sights – fleeting, sudden, and mesmerising. Ready for the noise – the air vibrating with the energy of this cliffside community. 

Each cry feels like an individual’s story, telling me who they are, what they’re doing. This time, it doesn’t take as much effort to listen in, to focus on one voice, then another. 

And there, just a few metres in front of me, sits a row of gannets. Their grace ever-present, the piercing gaze settling upon me before simply dismissing me. I am not a threat to them. They are the masters of the cliff. They have chosen these steep edges for that very reason, nothing is skilled enough to reach them. Certainly not me. They have adapted not just for survival, but to thrive upon these harsh cliff faces. Here, they are safe.

At first, I use these voices to help me capture the moments I wanted with my camera. Allowing me to plan rather than simply react. As if I was finally in on their big secret. It’s like rewatching a detective movie, where you know exactly who did it. You start to notice the little clues, the little tells. 

But for a long time, I just sit and watch. No camera, no rush, just the wind on my face and the steady rhythm of wings overhead. The colony stretches out before me, every bird a flicker of movement, the true heartbeat of the cliff. I think back to that moment stepping out the car, scanning the wires for signs of life, impatient to find something familiar.  And now, hours later, here I am. Not only having found what I came for, but having discovered something more along the way.  

The kittiwakes, the quiet paths, the missed signpost, they all became part of the story. The adventure wasn’t just about reaching the gannets, or maybe it would have been if I had seen the sign telling me there was a shortcut straight to them.  

As I turn to leave, I take one last look back at the colony – the smell still clinging to my jacket, the sound still echoing in my ears. And I smile. 

I’ll be back.

by Ellie Reid