The Steller's Eider in Orkney 12th November 2019

It all started on the 29th of October when a first year drake Steller's Eider was reported from the Loch of Swartmill on the island of Westray in Orkney. Now Orkney is a very long way from my home in Oxfordshire so when Mark, a birding colleague, who lives in Bedfordshire, rang me to discuss whether we should try to go and see it I was none too sure whether I wanted to. 

It did not help that I also have an unfortunate memory of my only other visit to Orkney when I travelled all the way there in October 2015, only to arrive one day too late to see a Chestnut Bunting on Papa Westray.

The Steller's Eider would be a good addition to our lists as both of us had never seen one in Britain, which is hardly surprising as only fifteen have ever graced British shores. Included in these records are a long staying drake that remained on South Uist from 1972-1984 and another drake that frequented Papa Westray and Westray in 1974 and then again from 1978-1982. A wing of one was found on 31st March 1996 at Tresta on Fetlar, Shetland and the only subsequent record is of a bird that stayed from 16th-18th November 2000 at Hopeman, Morayshire, on the Scottish mainland. 

Steller's Eider is usually found on the Arctic coasts of eastern Siberia and Alaska but winters further south in The Bering Sea, off the coast of northern Scandinavia and in The Baltic. The best place to see them in the Western Palearctic is Estonia and northern Norway and it is highly unusual for them to come any further south, in fact many are now lingering further north in Russian waters, possibly due to global warming.

After some discussion we decided to leave matters as they were and see if the duck would hang around, which vagrant ducks are sometimes prone to do. This strategy makes it a lot less risky to twitch and promises a better chance of seeing the bird in question.

The next day the duck had disappeared and we congratulated ourselves on not making a very long, fruitless and expensive journey to Orkney. The fates however had other ideas and the duck was re-found six days later, on the sea off Westray airfield, on 6th November, before it moved a short distance east to the tiny off lying island of Papa Westray (abbreviated by Orcadians to Papay) which is but a metaphorical stone's throw from the coast of Westray.

A group of birders managed to twitch the eider a few days later on Papay but the logistics of getting there are daunting unless you want to spend large sums of money. Getting to Orkney is hard enough and that is only as far as Kirkwall which is on Mainland, the chief island of Orkney, but then getting onwards to Papay requires either flying, chartering a boat or going on the school ferry which takes children from Papay to Westray and back each weekday.

With the knowledge of the recent successful twitch of the eider by the intrepid birders referred to above, firmly in my mind, I was now in a quandary whether to try for the eider or not. Mark rang me again during the week and we made a vague plan to go to Orkney after the approaching weekend, assuming the duck remained on Papay in the intervening period, which it did, being seen and reported every day. The temptation was now becoming ever more difficult to resist.

I was sat in the Old Mill Cafe in Chipping Norton on the morning of Remembrance Sunday, the 10th November reading the paper and sipping a coffee when my phone rang. It was an excited Mark.

'Do you want to go for the Stellers? It's still there and we can get a flight on Easyjet from Luton at 1035am which will get us into Inverness at noon and then we can hire a car and drive to Gill's Bay on the north coast of Caithness to catch the last ferry to Kirkwall (in Orkney) which sails at 6.30 in the evening'. There is a flight from Kirkwall to Papa Westray on Loganair the next morning and we can twitch the duck and be back in Kirkwall the same night.'

From the tone of his voice it sounded like his mind was made up, so who was I to demur.

Mark asked should he go ahead and book the flights and car. 

'Errr, when exactly are we going?' I enquired. 

'Tomorrow'. 

I was a bit taken aback at the suddenness of it all and also tired from my recent trip to Oslo to see the Pine Grosbeaks. My instinct was to counsel caution and delay but this is twitching where normal behaviour goes out of the window. 

'OK let's do it' I replied, without really thinking of the consequences.

That was the easy bit.

Here are the logistics that were required to get me and Mark to Papa Westray in Orkney and in a position to see the Steller's Eider.

Sunday 10th November

After finishing my phone call with Mark I left the cafe and went home to print out the boarding cards for the Easyjet flight tomorrow, which Mark had emailed to me in the meantime, as he has no printer.

I packed a bag, crammed with  warm clothes, boots, bins and camera as only one bag per person is allowed on the flight unless you want to pay a lot more money.

Via the internet I booked a ticket on the 4.30pm  National Express bus from Oxford  to Luton Airport  and a room at a Travel Lodge in Luton for Sunday night.

I asked my forever uncomplaining wife to run me to Gloucester Green Bus Station in the heart of Oxford at 3.30pm that same afternoon, Sunday 10th November.

I boarded the National Express Bus at 4.30pm for a two and  half  hour journey to Luton Airport.

I took a very expensive taxi from the airport to the Travel Lodge, some six miles from the airport.

I called Mark and we arranged to meet for a coffee in the Travel Lodge and discuss our plans for tomorrow. Once Mark had joined me we booked individual taxis for Monday morning, one to pick me up at the Travel Lodge and one to collect Mark from his home, which would then take us to Leagrave Station where we would meet at 8am tomorrow, Monday. I also booked us accommodation at the Orcadia Hostel in Kirkwall for the nights of  Monday and Tuesday.

Monday 11th November

Mark and myself met at Leagrave Station  and took a Thameslink train for two stops, then got a shuttle bus to the airport. We were early so we sat in the departure lounge drinking coffee and chatting. The flight was delayed by half an hour and once on the plane, at the captain's request, we observed two minutes silence before we took off.  An hour and a half after take off we were safely delivered to a cold and grey Inverness Airport.

We collected our car from Europcar and set off for Gill's Bay in Caithness some 127 miles further north. Mark spent a lot of time eulogising about the upgraded car we were given whilst I took a long and occasionally uncomfortable trip down memory lane as we passed by my father's home village of Invergordon on the Cromarty Firth and other nearby landmarks from my youth, engendering, in equal measure, a plethora of happy and painful memories. The scenery was spectacular, as we drove north with the high, distant mountains of Wester Ross now completely snow covered and dominating the pastoral coastal landscape we passed through. It was a special and rugged grandeur totally at odds with the claustrophobic urban environment we had left at Luton, just hours ago. The roads were almost empty as we traversed the late autumn countryside of Ross and Cromarty, before crossing the Dornoch Firth and heading into Sutherland.

The car's oil warning light came on indicating a low oil level in the engine. The car had only done nine thousand miles so someone at Europcar clearly had not done their job. We drove on and nothing happened to the engine. I tried to ring the various numbers we had been given by Europcar for emergencies but they all proved totally useless. No one at Europcar wanted to know. This was one more anxiety that we just did not need. If the car did break down we would never get to Orkney, as we were on a very tight schedule with no margin for error, and the trip would be a total disaster. We had to press on and hope the light was faulty.

We drove on and it began to get dark at three in the afternoon. A huge grey cloud, like a monstrous dustbin lid hung malevolently above the land. The light faded rapidly. We passed from Sutherland into Caithness and the Satnav took us off the main road and across a vast and slightly intimidating topography of flat moorland and complete desolation. It stretched for huge distances in all directions. The narrow roads we followed were so straight you could see where you were going for miles ahead. Not a light shone anywhere across this barren wasteland, virtually devoid of life and human habitation.

We followed the road and finally came to Gill's Bay. We had made it and the time was now four in the afternoon. It had begun to rain. A cafe formed a welcome beacon of light in the depressing, down at heel ferry terminal that lurked by the Pentland Firth. A reviving cup of tea or coffee would be just the thing.

I was tired from the constant travelling and with the tiredness came anxiety and depression. It was impossible to not be after the exhausting journey we had made so far, the constant worry about the car, the distance we knew we still had to go and the absolute dreariness of the surroundings we now found ourselves in.

The cafe, which doubles as a reception centre for the ferry, was deserted. Not a soul to be seen. Minutes passed. Eventually a lady appeared through a back door. No apology, no explanation was forthcoming, just a rather defensive look as if we were interlopers. My spirits sank even lower. A kind word and a glimmer of welcome to a weary traveller would have made all the difference. Not a chance. We ordered soup. There was a choice of three but we were told we could only have parsnip.

The lady's lack of customer skills were in total harmony with the depressing surroundings outside, as it continued to rain ever harder. My phone had no signal. Another traveller entered the cafe, a young guy who started talking to us. He was an engineer and he told us he was fulfilling a contract to visit various fire stations on the islands that comprise Orkney and check their equipment. We told him of our plans to go to Papay tomorrow  and then spent the time, as we sat, a captive audience, listening to his tales of doom and gloom about his experiences of travelling to various Scottish islands and how we were unlikely to get onto Papay at this time of year due to the high winds, and just to rub it in,  he related how flights are cancelled at the last moment and you are left stranded at Kirkwall airport.

I became cross and considered whether I should throttle this harbinger of doom. Instead I slumped down on my seat, closed my eyes and told myself it would all be worth it if we saw the Steller's Eider. I fervently wished the engineer would go away or just shut up  but of course it was too late, he had sown the seeds of doubt in the fertile furrow of my anxiety.

Thankfully we were eventually given our boarding slips, made our escape from the cafe of doom and joined the queue of cars sat in the rain outside, waiting to board the ferry. The ship arrived. A blaze of apocalyptic light looming out of the impenetrable wet darkness of the night sea. It was almost welcoming but not quite. Although it was a huge new vessel, only weeks old, built in Vietnam and costing eleven million pounds, inside it was spartan and slightly intimidating. The few people on it, including us, were subdued, lost in its spacious but charmless, functional interior.  

The crossing was only an hour but it seemed longer. The engineer from Gill's Bay spotted us and came over to tell us how high the winds were and how unlikely it was that the plane would fly to Papay tomorrow. Mark finally had enough of his pessimism and was quite rude to him but we were beyond caring about being diplomatic. He took the hint and went away.

Finally we docked at a place called St Margaret's Hope, drove off the ship and headed for the Orcadia Hostel in Kirkwall which we failed to find in the dark due to our tiredness but after knocking on an islander's door we were pointed in the right direction. The hostel was obvious and brightly lit up but we were so tired we had managed to completely miss it.We both felt a little foolish.

Inside the hostel we were welcomed by the owner, given our keys and shown to our ground floor room which was warm and functional with an ensuite bathroom. Dumping our bags we drove into Kirkwall and entered the St Ola Hotel. It was clean, devoid of customers, with polished wood panelling on the walls and had a lot of pictures of trawlers battling huge seas. The barman was chatty and, betraying our anxiety, we asked him about our chances of getting onto Papay tomorrow. Quite why we should think a local barman was a weather expert is another anomaly. He did his best to re-assure us, sensing our anxiety. Maybe he was an ex mariner and knew what he was talking about. Maybe we were clutching at straws. A bottle of Dark Island beer made matters seem better and straws became irrelevant.

There was nothing we could do now and miles from home there was no going back and we were committed to one course of action and only had tomorrow to achieve it. Get onto Papay and see the Steller's Eider. To be denied the opportunity by the weather would be just too cruel to bear.

I made a silent plea as we drove back to our hostel. 

What have I done agreeing to this. Please let it work out successfully. 

I just could not fail a second time on Papa Westray.

I managed to get a reasonable night's sleep in the hostel and as a result felt better about life in the morning. We left the hostel, in the dark at 6.30am, to drive the short distance to Kirkwall Airport. It was windy, cold and the day dawned sullen and grey but thankfully the incessant rain from last night had abated. Outwardly both Mark and myself were a study in calm but inwardly we were in a turmoil of anxiety and concern as both of us knew that in the next few minutes we would know if we were going to get to Papay or not. It was a bit like a visit to the dentist, an unpleasant but unavoidable necessity that in the end you can no longer put off.

We entered the pleasant terminal building, an oasis of light and warmth and, in direct contrast to yesterday's experience at Gill's Bay, the staff were exceptionally helpful and friendly. It made so much difference and cost nothing.

Kirkwall Airport

We approached the Loganair Inter Island Flight Desk and enquired about the 8.30am departure to Papay, speaking to a young Czech man who told us there was absolutely no chance the flight would not go. A warm glow spread through me and I am sure Mark felt the same. What a huge relief and as the butterflies in my stomach subsided so my appetite returned and we went to sit and await our flight and have some breakfast.

At last our flight was called and five of us, three going to Westray and the two of us onwards to Papay, walked out onto the cold tarmac and towards the tiny Britten Norman Islander plane that was waiting to take us to Papay.

Crammed onto a bench seat with Mark we sat behind the captain who turned, introduced himself and told us we would be in the air for around fifteen minutes of flying to Westray and then on to Papay, a flight of around ninety seconds and rejoicing in the fact it is the shortest scheduled commercial airline flight in the world. They even give you a certificate with your name on to confirm it. If you remember to ask!

The tiny plane, buffeted by the wind, taxied out onto the runway and with a roar from the two engines and a teeth rattling vibration through the plane's body we were soon airborne and leaving the ground behind. Mainland passed below us, bleak and windswept and then we were over the sea, an expanse of  uninviting grey interspersed by the white crests of breaking waves, on a course for Westray. 

So far today we had no news about the eider as there was no signal for our phones in the air terminal. I checked my phone for a signal once we were airborne and saw that, remarkably, I had one. There  on my phone was a message, sent just minutes ago by Adrian, with the magic words 'Eider still present'. I showed it to Mark and both of us felt instantly less anxious and a whole lot more optimistic. It looked like this huge gamble was going to pay off but  I cautioned we may be on our way to Papay but we still had to find the duck, although it certainly looked much more likely now.

Why do I get such a feeling of fulfilment from twitching? It's a question I always ask myself at a time like this. Sure it's the addictive surge of adrenalin when you finally get to see that really rare bird and  the great risks taken to see it have paid dividends but for me it's more than that. I have never been over endowed with self confidence and thus lacked a willingness to take chances, this courtesy of a domineering Scots father and upbringing. As a result, for much of my life I felt constrained, never managing to achieve the confidence or ambition to strike out on my own and do anything that would be considered extraordinary. I suppose I lived a conventional and unremarkable existence but underneath it all was a latent rebellious streak and finally a cathartic incident, many years ago,  broke the mental shackles that held me back. With my new found confidence and understanding, the world became mine to explore and although the same self doubts instilled in me from childhood still assail me, they are now manageable as I head off on another high stakes gamble with the birding fates to whatever remote or unlikely location I have been drawn to, be it in Britain or the rest of the world. 

Dare I say it is totally addictive?

Twitching birds in Britain brings re-assurance to my often fragile confidence, as when I arrive at whatever location I have made for, I find others, like me, that are driven by that same desire to come and see a particular rare bird. I realise then that I am not alone in my obsession and feel at ease with myself. No longer do I hear my father's scornful tones deriding my stupidity and extravagant waste of money. I feel a palpable sense of comradeship and  understanding due to the invisible bond we all share for that brief moment and I know I have no reason to feel foolish or insecure.

The plane finally touched down on the tiny landing strip of Papa Westray. We had completed our long tortuous journey but I was still on edge, for now we had to find the location on the coast of Papay that the eider favoured. Papay is not large, being approximately four miles long by one mile wide but it is still a large area to cover on foot and without assistance and local knowledge we could waste valuable time searching for the duck before having to catch our return flight at 3pm.

I had emailed someone I vaguely knew on the island yesterday, asking for help but heard nothing back. So the question now arose as to whether there would be anyone to ask and give us directions at the tiny shed that acts as the Papay airport terminal. All we knew was the duck had been seen yesterday on the west side of Papay, north of St Boniface Kirk. We had no idea where that was.

I need not have worried as there was a 'crowd' of around five birders, who had been on the island since yesterday, and had already seen the duck this morning and were awaiting the plane in order to fly back to Kirkwall.There was also a local lady called Jennifer standing with them. The birders told us the duck was showing well and Jennifer informed us she was going to drive us to the kirk and then lead us out along the seashore to where the eider had last been seen this morning. Perfect and another typical example of the hospitable and helpful nature of all the islanders we had met so far.

Papa Westray Air Terminal

So at last, here we were on Papay, and now the worries and anxious moments that had steadily accumulated over the long trip north were laid to rest. Jennifer drove us a mile or so down the only road on the island to the restored kirk, which stands on an important ecclesiastical site that dates back to the eighth century. A lonely and atmospheric location looking out to sea and the nearby coast of Westray.

St Boniface Kirk

We left the car and, in my case, donned waterproofs and then, following Jennifer we crossed a stile into a grass field by the rocky shore and walked for several hundred yards over further windswept and wet fields northwards, towards a small bay in the distance, where two other birders were hunkered down, sheltering under a wall from the wind and looking out at the tumultuous sea.

The weather was truly wild on this deserted shore. Massive slabs of flat shelving rock, made slippery and treacherous from rain and seawater sloped down to the heaving sea. The wind was from the north, very strong  and was turning the sea into a succession of huge waves that rose upwards and then curled over to shatter against the rocks in a foaming froth of white, sending great showers of spray up into the air. The sea for some way out was white with foam where the spent waves had retreated from their assault on the rocks. Constantly, other huge waves rolled in to shatter with a percussive thunder of sound and white surf against the unyielding rocks.

It was exhilerating to both see and hear but where was the Steller's Eider?

Jennifer told us the eider was usually somewhere between the kirk and a distinct but small promontory a little way north of us and it usually fed very close to the rocks, right in the surf. We came to the two birders and they told us they had just seen the eider but had lost sight of it five minutes ago and had not refound it so far. I scanned the sea but did not have an idea of exactly how close the eider was likely to be. Frustrated I scanned and scanned but could not see any sign of the eider and a niggle of anxiety, totally unjustified, took hold of me. I told myself to calm down and be patient as the duck was here and it was just a matter of time before we saw it. Jennifer left us to it and said she would return at around lunchtime to see how we had got on.

We continued to look for the duck but still could not locate it. I felt the slightest of panics but told myself not to be silly. We had all day and the  eider was bound to be located by one of us sooner rather than later. We had to be patient and relax, which is easier said than done when this was the culmination of a trip that had commenced over twenty four hours ago.

Mark found it first and seconds later, so did I, in the form of a distinctive silhouette swimming in the white surf close to the shore, just as Jennifer had said it would be.

No sooner had I laid eyes on it than it was gone, having dived. It was a little way north from us so we walked closer to the approximate spot where it had been. It surfaced and now, much closer to us, there was no doubt about its identity. Finally. At last. The Steller's Eider. Before our very eyes.

Its dark form made it easy to pick out in the white surf and there were no other ducks to be seen, just European Shags fishing further out. I noted its distinctive flat crown giving the head a square appearance. Its tail feathers appeared as a series of spikes, often held up stiffly at forty five degrees.  Overall its plumage was dark brown with a distinct bluish/ purple speculum, edged on each side with a narrow bar of white. Its head was patchy with paler areas amongst the brown.

Whisper it but superficially it looked a bit like a large female Mallard but no Mallard would be able to nonchalantly withstand the battering this duck contentedly endured from the heavy seas.

It was the master of its element, diving close into the rocks, where you felt it was bound to be dashed to its death by the force of the waves but it obviously preferred the turmoil of the waves and strong currents to feed in. The massive waves continued to surge towards the rocks and the eider either rode up and over the crests of them or, if the wave broke, it would dive beneath the onrushing wave at the very last moment, swimming through it to emerge on the other side.

It fed actively in the surf but after a while would swim further out to sea and loaf around beyond the breaking waves and surf where the sea was marginally less turbulent. Eventually it would fly back to settle close to the rocks, showing very white underwings in the process and re-commence feeding in the surf, diving by using its wings to propel it below the water.

We watched it almost continuously for about three hours as the wind howled about us and while the rain kept off for the most part. Sadly the eider was on the very limit of my camera and lens's range but I did my best. Sometimes it is just as thrilling to record the moment rather than get upset about not getting the shot.

Towards the end of our stay I stood alone on the wet rocks and looked out at the sea, forever restless and roaring, relentless in its violence as it hurled itself at the rocks. Salt on the wind and the sound of breaking surf were my only companions - plus one rather special duck.

It was over. It was done.