A trip to Ailsa Craig, part one.

On the first of September 2010, I fulfilled an almost lifelong ambition to visit Ailsa Craig in the firth of Clyde.
I use the term lifelong, because for as long as I can remember this spectacular volcanic plug lying alone in the sea between Kintyre and Ayrshire has held a supreme fascination for me.
It rises sheer on three sides from the ocean bed, climbing almost vertically to over a thousand feet.
Vast granite and basaltic columns soar skywards, eventually giving way to hugely steep slopes of scree, interspersed with islands of bracken, grasses and heather.
But, despite its spectacular geology, it wasn’t really this that caught my imagination from such an early age.
No, my youthful ornithological brain, whilst impressed by the 20 miles distant rocky verticality of the place, was far more interested in the fact that around 5000 pairs of one of my all time favourite birds breed there - The Northern Gannet.


A daytrip on the fishing vessel ‘Shangri La’ would take me to within a few yards of ‘The Craig’ and subsequently, as well as realising a long held wish to visit, I would take some of my best ever images of that or any other bird.
What follows is an account of that memorable occasion.



1
A quarter moon punctuated the thin high cloud as I made my way down to the harbour.
It was three am, and half an hour earlier I had risen from my bed, barely four hours since falling asleep.
Absolute silence enshrouded the quay.
The normally vociferous gulls perched like statues by the waterside, their heads tucked tightly underneath their wings.
Even as I walked past, my Wellington boots clumping noisily on the tarmac, they barely acknowledged my presence, accepting me as just another fisherman returning for a long day of toil; an event the Gulls of Campbeltown are witness to almost every night of the year.

I was the first to arrive at the ‘Shangri La’ .
I sat down on a mooring bollard, keeping as quiet as possible, as I knew that below deck one of the crew was still asleep.
Staying fifteen miles from Campbeltown, he elected to live on the boat during the week.
The other two crew-mates and the skipper had still to arrive. So I made the most of these few quiet moments alone, and enjoyed sitting in the silence and watching the slumbering gulls.

I noticed one of them, a youthful Herring Gull, appeared to be having difficulty in maintaining its position.
Like a lot of resting birds it was perched on one leg, but the other limb - instead of being tucked neatly under the bird - hung out grotesquely to the left hand side.
It seemed that this unlucky young Gull had suffered a misfortune to its leg, and evidently he or she felt some real discomfort from it.
With the pallid glow of the streetlights illuminating the scene, I watched through binoculars as time and again it would adjust itself into the most comfortable position it could.
Then, keeping its head out in the open rather than tucking it away, the eyes would slowly start to close, and the birds head and bill would gradually sink forward as if intensely studying the concrete quayside.
Eventually, just as it seemed the brown beak was about to touch the ground, the Gull would awake with a start, ruffle its feathers, stretch out the offending limb and begin the whole process again.
The other Larids took absolutely no notice, and not for the first time I felt pity rise inside of me for the plight of a friendless wild creature.

Suddenly, all the Gulls were wide awake, and one of two Greater black backs, who incidentally, occupied the most lofty of the quayside perches, growled a low warning note and stared intently at the stacked nets and boxes beside me.
A Black shape stole past between me and the fishing gear, snaking its way stealthily towards the Gulls roost.

The cat had tried to use the element of surprise. But, the fact that I was sitting nearby had made the birds a little more watchful than usual, and soon the quiet three AM air was filled with the noisy flapping of escaping seagulls.
As the wing noise died away, I could hear the distant delicate splashing as the departed birds alighted on the smooth water; safe, for now from the attentions of the defeated moggy.
I wondered at the pluck of the cat.
A desperate Herring Gull could certainly do a malnourished feral feline a fair bit of damage, and in my opinion, a healthy Greater black backed Gull could probably kill one.

In the distance I heard an engine approach, it seemed the rest of the crew had arrived.

A few minutes later we had released the boat from its moorings, and had began our long journey south east.
The sea was absolutely flat calm, and above in the now clear sky, millions of stars and that scant sliver of moon cast an eerie pale light on the mirror like surface.
As the skipper steered the boat between the flashing buoys, and beyond the silent dark hump of Davaar island, I went below for some coffee and conversation.

Two of the crew had retired to their bunk, but my brother John, and the Shangri La’s first mate Robbie remained.
Both of these men have been at sea most of their working lives, and the tales they can tell are fascinating.
John and I, shouting over the roar of the engines, sat back drinking coffee, and discussing Great black backed Gulls.
He told me that the extraordinary amount of one legged or crippled Gulls in the harbour, was often the result of damage from this avian pirate.
Apparently, and Robbie agreed: The Herring gulls would pick up and swallow a tasty morsel from the boat or the surface of the water, then a chase between the much larger black back and the Herring gull would begin.
When the Black back had caught up with the smaller gull, it would reach out with that enormous, powerful bill, grab the unfortunate others trailing leg, and then twist until the Herring Gull disgorged whatever prize it had acquired.
Being so powerful, the Black back would often break or dislocate the others leg in the process, and this was probably the same fate that had befallen the unfortunate young gull I had watched earlier that morning. Ironically, only two feet from that crippled bird, nonchalant and aloof, sat a member of the same genus responsible for its misfortune.

More to follow soon.

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