The ‘Foul Gull’? In praise of Fulmars
Shearing over wave-tops on taut wings, slicing through the misty Faroese skies along the contours of volcanic cliffs, cackling with guttural cries from grassy ledges at dizzying heights...the Fulmar is a species ever-present and very much at home in the oceanic island realm of the Faroes.
Whilst it's not the seabird species I've travelled north to study for this summer season, it's one that has been difficult not to enjoy watching and marvelling at during my time in the Faroes.
After a series of particularly memorable encounters in the past few days, I decided to write a short photo story in an attempt to capture something of this specie's majesty, curiosity, eloquence and beauty. They are truly wonderful seabirds that we are so lucky to have careering about the rugged coasts of the North Atlantic, and their name (which comes from the Norse for 'foul gull') really doesn't do them justice.
I'm currently based on the small, teardrop-shaped island of Nólsoy in the Faroe Islands, where I'm carrying out some research work on the island's very large and very special colony of European Storm-petrels - a tiny nocturnal seabird species which nests in the island's immense skirt of boulder fields lying waste at the base of its encircling cliffs.
Nólsoy, like many of the Faroese islands, is in possession of some pretty immense cliffs. The island's western slopes are a rugged series of stepped volcanic rock layers, which trace back the area's geological history some 50 million years. Relatively young compared to the mishmash of old, 500 million year old rocks laying the foundation of my homeland back in Wales.
The town of Nólsoy nestled into the narrow isthmus at the northern end of this humpback-shaped island
On the island's eastern side, the mountain ridge of 'Eggjaklettur' falls away abruptly in a spectacular 4km long cliff edge which overshadows the World's biggest population of Storm-petrels in the boulders below.
High above these chattering boulderfields fly the Fulmars.
The immense cliffs on Nólsoy’s eastern edge; Anne Ausems (a visiting seabird researcher) and the local naturalist legend Jens-kjeld Jensen stand at its base.
Standing atop this cliff edge in a stiff northerly wind and gazing down affords one of the most awesome views I've enjoyed in these northern lands. Fulmars occupy the air space in every direction for kilometres; layers and layers of aerobatic prowess carving eloquent flight paths along the cliff's volcanic layers. Birds commute to and from the sea offshore, careering downwards in a dive any Peregrine falcon would be challenged by. I stand at the top of this bustling activity and follow the contouring flight paths of wandering birds as they drop in on neighbours, clatter down onto grassy ledges and dangle feet like landing gear with tails fanned out wide.
Hundreds and hundreds of birds make up this particular metropolis - a city of the best kind in my view. Some of its inhabitants are more curious than others, and rise up on the air currents to hang in the breeze just feet away from me. Their liquid black eyes take a deep and long look into me - there's something very special about a Fulmar's gaze. You can feel their perception of you, their inquisitive mind and curious apprehension. It's a magical thing; an experience I've enjoyed ever since my first winters on my island home of Ynys Enlli in North Wales. I have fond memories of sitting on the steep east side of the island in late December as the first breeding birds returned to the cliffs, watching their aerial antics and revelling at their close fly-bys and curiosity.
A friend summarised the gaze of a Fulmar in an ample statement: 'I always feel like I understand more about the universe when I stare into a Fulmar's eye'.
This particular cohort of curious birds fly in continual circles at the cliff edge, their wings bending, twitching, tucking and fluttering in response to the micro air currents buffeting the volcanic rock. They trace eloquent paths through the air despite the turbulence. Some of their slow-motion fly-bys are so close I can almost touch their wing tips.
The next day, I am standing at the base of the cliffs amidst the Storm-petrel colony, and gaze up from a different perspective. Breeding birds are still commuting back and forth from their nesting ledges (where fat and fluffy chicks wait eagerly for food), but the swarming mass of birds are absent. Today there is no wind, and the playful aerial antics I witnessed in the northerly blast the previous day have dissipated - Until the next northerly blow.
A few days later, I'm aboard a small boat en route to the cliff-ringed island of Mykines, in the far western reaches of the Faroes. The first inquisitive visitors to glide beside the ship as we forge our way west are, of course, the Fulmars.
But this time it's a cliff face of a different kind they begin to surf. The boat sends out a series of waves in our wake as we leave the shelter of the fjord. The wind is calm, and provides little gliding forces for the Fulmars to utilise in the flat calm seas. Instead, a snowstorm of these seafarers descend onto the wake of our boat. Within minutes, we have several hundred fulmars in our tail, each utilising the moving surface of the rolling waves we've created to power forward - surfing the airstream of a wave. Birds are inches above the water, their white bellies almost dipping into the sea at times.
It's a mesmerising sight. A cloud of birds take it in turns surfing the waves in the wake of our ship in a conveyor belt of motion. Each single wave must support some twenty or more birds. Occasionally a few gain enough momentum to peel off and power past us on taught, slightly bent wings. They glide parallel to us as we speed along and then power off towards the looking buttresses of Mykines and its immense cliffs. The island now appears out of the mist and we get our first glimpses of its seabird cities occupying ledges, grassy cliff tops and rocky outcrops from sea level to its towering heights. Spectacular.
The island of Mykines - a spectacular seabird city with an airspace bustling with Puffins, skuas, Kittiwakes, gulls and the wonderful Fulmar.
Fulmars only arrived in these northern Isles between 1816 and 1839, after spreading from the Icelandic island of Grímsey where they were recorded from at least the 1640s. How fulmars first arrived into our waters and where exactly their origin traces back to is still not entirely known. Their subsequent spread into the rest of the North East Atlantic is an incredible story of expansion and colonisation, one which we now take for granted as we watch these very special seabirds powering through the air along clifftops all across the UK and in island chains like the Faroes.
Their arrival and rapid spread is a feat which, for me at least, gives me hope in the current context of bleak biodiversity declines all across the World. If we restore our severed relationship with the natural world and can begin repairing the damage we've wreaked in oceanic and terrestrial systems, the capacity of nature to recover and return can be remarkable.
For now, I will continue glancing up during my fieldwork and staring in distracted awe at the wheeling outlines of fulmars high above, against the dark volcanic cliffs of Nólsoy. What a bird.
