Black Audi Birding: That Albatross at Bempton 10th July 2021

The call came in the late afternoon of Friday as I drove back home from Banbury via quiet country lanes. Rural Oxfordshire was at its idyllic best and I was at ease.

It was Hugh with a question. 'Do you fancy going to see the albatross tomorrow?'

Some hasty arrangements that evening had me arriving in a small village near Peterborough at 1am on Saturday morning.

Hugh was ready and waiting outside his house while the rest of the village slept.

There was no time to lose as we conversed in hushed tones and I transferred myself and my gear to his car in preparation for a night drive, north to the RSPB's Bempton Cliffs reserve on the coast of East Yorkshire, where the Black browed Albatross had re-appeared yesterday.

Our plan was to get to the reserve at dawn in order to secure a place on the 'New Roll Up' viewing platform as, without a doubt, the albatross was going to be hugely popular, especially on a summer Saturday. We also felt it important to be in position before the albatross left the cliff it was supposedly roosting on.

Checking the weather predictions it looked like the day would be rain free but with a possibility of mist early on.

Two and a half hours later, and driving down the lane to the reserve car park in the half light of the breaking dawn, we saw the red tail lights of another vehicle ahead, its occupant surely with the same thing in mind as us.

'We are not the first' I remarked

Indeed we were not, for the car park was already liberally populated with cars and birders preparing to make the short walk to the cliffs with one thing on their mind. An albatross! We hurried to get ready and walked at pace down the path to the cliffs before turning right along the cliff edge track towards the southeast end of the reserve and in particular the 'New Roll Up' viewpoint, a wooden structure on the cliff edge overlooking the sea.

The albatross was thought to be roosting on the side of the cliff face at Staple Newk that was visible from the viewpoint.

Land and sea were but an indistinct presence in the mist with the towering cliffs blurred to massive, ill defined outlines.You sensed their presence rather than saw them.For now anyway.

Approaching the viewpoint we could see it was already occupied by a large number of birders, their outlines silhouetted against the lightening sky. I decided to walk onwards to the next and furthest viewpoint, 'Staple Newk', where the albatross had been photographed yesterday evening, flying close in to the cliffs.

Hugh decided to opt for 'New Roll Up'. He needed the best chance possible to see the albatross as it would be a new British tick for him.I had the luxury to feel more relaxed as I had seen the albatross just a few days ago. We agreed to keep in touch from our respective viewpoints and update each other by phone as and when necessary.

I was the sole occupant of my viewpoint and was beginning to doubt my wisdom when I was joined by another birder who dispensed reassurance by recounting how close the albatross had come to the viewpoint yesterday evening.We chatted, waiting as the mist dissipated from the cliffs to reveal the sight of countless Gannets and Kittiwakes milling around above and below us. Sight and also sound created an unforgettable impression. A spiralling vortex of huge white birds. Constantly circling. Forever scrutinising. Those birds making a close pass of the viewpoint cliffs would then wheel on six foot wings, out to sea, only to turn and approach the cliffs once more. What was behind the expressionless stare from those eyes of blue and grey as they passed me?

Time also passed and the mist retreated further to form a distant haze out at sea. I chatted to my colleague as we were joined by increasingly more birders.The viewpoint began to become populated, almost crowded. The limited space was now at a premium.

Hugh rang to tell me that with the improving visibility he could see the albatross was not on the cliff with the Gannets.

Where could it be? Although absent I still felt confident it would appear.

What seemed a considerable time later Hugh called again, to advise the albatross had flown in from further north and landed on its favourite bit of cliff, which due to the topography made it invisible to me but visible to Hugh.

Another long wait ensued and then suddenly, unexpectedly and excitingly, from behind the jutting cliff of Staple Newk, the albatross appeared. It was not as easy as one would expect to pick it out amongst the whirling shapes of hundreds of Gannets and Kittiwakes but there, unequivocally, was the albatross.

It was not at head height but below, black of wing and white of head and body with a pink bill of monstrous proportions and a black frown line over its eye. What a beauty and I clicked away merrily with the camera as it circled amongst the other seabirds. I was exultant. At last, here were the extended and close views I had so longed for and had made four trips to achieve.

For fifteen minutes it circled continuously and apparently aimlessly, just like all the gannets, scrutinising the cliff faces as if curious or seeking something. Turning into the wind it bent its long wings to slightly stall in the flow of air up the cliff, lowering its huge grey paddle feet to act as a stabilising wind brake, then, sweeping around, extended those gargantuan narrow wings to an incredible length and dropped away, glider fashion but with infinitely more control, further out to sea, before circling and flying back over the gannet colony below us.

I followed its gyrations, vaguely aware of late arriving birders behind me, running down the grass track in a panic and onto the wooden viewing platform, cramming into any available space and hastily commencing to fire off their cameras. No time to check settings. They were lucky, as the albatross flew out of sight around the cliff face a minute later and a phone call from Hugh confirmed it had returned to perch amongst the Gannets as it had done earlier.

An hour may have passed. It seemed so and then there it was again, suddenly and unexpectedly appearing, only to circle once before drifting slowly out to sea and away. It eventually settled a long way off, on the sea, and there it remained, bathing and preening. This bird of the sea and air. Removing any trace of land from its foam white feathers. It rose from the sea, heading inexorably northeast, despite everyone's hopes to the contrary and was gone from sight. It was approaching 7am and the day had hardly begun although it felt like it was already over

Numbers built up until there were capacity crowds at all the viewpoints as well as lined along the clifftop fences. The hope was it would return, as it had done before, later in the morning. Optimism remained strong for a while but all were to be disappointed. The albatross never returned.

Apart from a trip to the visitor centre for a coffee in mid morning, I spent from 4.30am to 6pm on the viewpoint. A time planned to be spent with an albatross morphed into one spent at a Gannet colony and which was far from a disappointment, as watching these magnificent seabirds go about their lives can never be boring.

Here are some more unusual images that I took during my long and immensely enjoyable vigil. It's not often one can say that they have spent a day in a Gannet colony.

I made the most of it.