All my life I have been obsessed by black and white birds. Magpies are my tormentors, my morning omens of whether my day will be worthwhile or miserable. Penguins are my salvation. When I’m a little melancholy, I pop along to London Zoo to read them poetry. In my experience, they enjoy The Wasteland.
There is another black and white bird that I have long found appealing: the puffin. My attempts to spot them, however, have been in vain. On a school geography field trip to the far north, I managed to see Iceland’s ugliest dog but no puffins. There seemed to be a family curse. My uncle was once booked a birthday trip to Puffin Island, off Anglesey, only to discover they’d all flown away.
But then I blagged a trip to Shetland. Nominally, I was there to cover the SNP’s Holyrood win. As soon as I’d left the ferry, I trooped through the drizzle to Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, the mainland’s southernmost beauty spot. On Shetland, puffins are called ‘Tammie Norries’. By the advertising, I assumed they’d be everywhere. Stand by the cliffs, spot a puffin, and my life would be complete. Then I could crack on with some proper reporting.
If only it were so easy. Puffins are elusive. They spend eight months of the year on the sea. During their breading season of April to August, they burrow on cliffs, spending their time in the dark raising chicks. Beyond the breeding season, their colourful beaks fade, so their black backs and white chests help them blend against the water and sky while swimming.
In Shetland, the puffins mainly live off sand eels, which have long been a major target of industrial fishing. As such, the RSPB has blamed the plummeting eel population for a rapid fall in their numbers. After Brexit, we gained the power to ban sand eel fishing. Yet despite conservationists’ best efforts, puffins are down a quarter on 2000.
But that’s not why I failed to spot any. Turns out I’d just arrived at midday; the best time to spot the birds was in the morning and evening. Undeterred, I shelled out £60 on an early morning sea bird tour. Bad weather moved it to the afternoon and, since I was going to expense the ticket, I felt obliged to go. I saw a seal. I saw several hundred seagulls. But no puffins. I headed home.
Nursing a Tennent’s in the ferry’s bar, I started chatting with a local about my puffin woes. She pointed to the passing Fair Isle. I’d see plenty there, if I squinted. Then she berated me for my ignorance, for looking in the wrong places, at the wrong times, on the wrong tours. She told me to stick to writing about the SNP, then offered me a beer. The bottle had a puffin on it.
Later, she asked if I wanted the spare bed in her cabin. I mumbled something about snoring and needing my pyjamas. She looked unimpressed, but pecked me on the cheek. I may not have spotted a puffin, but I know how they feel: lonely on the North Sea, struggling to catch.
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