Ringed Plovers on Arran 8th September 2019

It was our first morning on the island. The early light of dawn crept through a gap in bedroom curtains that had been carelessly drawn last night after an evening celebrating our return to Arran.

I stole out of the cottage and crossed the silent road below the front garden to the familiar stony beach opposite. 

Dawn breaking over Kilbrannan Sound

The wind from the northwest, that was so strong yesterday, had now subsided  to a gentle caress and the waves striking on the shore no longer beat a roaring tattoo but, less troubled, met the stones along the shore in a never ending successional sequence, creating an irregular gentle susurrus of sound, each wave as it broke leaving its gift of white froth on the stones. 

Opposite and  beyond the running sea of Kilbrannan Sound, the undulating topography of The Mull of Kyntyre, holding its eternal promise of the west beyond, was still mysterious and magical in the early light of morning.

From behind me the sun, rising in the east, cast a golden diffused light but was yet to clear the huge towering mass of Meall nan Leac, guarding the entrance to Glen Catacol.

I walked along the road, silent and untroubled by any vehicle, as it always is at this time of day.The world about here consists of only a few humans and those were all asleep so I was alone in a landscape where no sound was unnatural.

I made for where the burn had carved a passage of amber through the stones of the beach and ran out to the sea. Two Red Deer stags startled at my unexpected presence rapidly left the shore and disappeared into Glen Catacol. A Curlew, with preposterously long, downcurving bill was probing the mud between the stones at the water's edge. 

Eurasian Curlew

The Curlew had probably not come from far, maybe the barren moorland on the island's interior or the mainland nearby but this is the time of year when many other wading birds are returning from further, arriving after breeding in the high Arctic, phenomenal  travellers covering vast intercontinental distances between their summer and winter homes. The rocky shore here at Catacol, on the remoter west side of the island provides a  place where they can break their migration, rest and in the main be untroubled.

Catacol Beach 

This morning there were over twenty Turnstones concealed amongst the seaweed and stones on the shore, their plumage having mostly lost its bright harlequin breeding colours of orange and black so that the current transitory stage of their summer and winter plumage has brought a merging perfection with the colours of the seaweed which they frequented. Their sociable  presence was betrayed by the flock's continual feeding, as, true to their name, they upturned and  tossed seaweed and stones aside with their stub like bills in order to seize surprised invertebrates hiding underneath.

Turnstones

Gannets were, as ever, fishing in Kilbrannan Sound, patrolling back and fore above the calm water, stalling in the air, partially closing wings and pointing their bill downwards when they saw a fish, to become an outsized paper dart, plummeting at speed to hit the water with an audible thud and plume of spray. Submerged for a few seconds they would bounce up like an over buoyant cork to sit on the water, often briefly washing before lifting themselves off the sea with labouring wings to regain enough height for their next dive. 

Northern Gannet

Another flock of smaller waders were also inhabiting this part of the shore, maintaining a scattered but confidential presence with each other, and through which the larger Turnstones, forever restless, blundered. They were Ringed Plovers, over thirty of them, small, round backed, round headed waders with large dark eyes imparting an impression of constant benign anxiety. 

Ringed Plover

Their lack of movement and smaller size meant they were much less obvious than the Turnstones, as possessed of sandy buff upperparts and rounded profiles, this afforded them a superb camouflage as they stood silent and motionless amongst the stones that hid them.  They regarded my approach with an initial wariness but settled when they perceived there was to be no threat from me and some slept, head twisted round to snuggle bill into soft back feathers whilst standing on one leg. 

Others preened and, as is often the way, the action was contagious amongst the flock. Occasionally a bird would raise its wings  to their full extent above its body, a reflex action that is characteristic  of many wading birds, the white underwing coverts shining in the sun and  briefly negating the bird's marvel of concealment, whilst others would outstretch a white barred wing and orange leg, a slow, deliberate, comforting lateral movement of supreme grace and elegance. 

It was now high water and the flock stood awaiting the turn of the tide. The wind had dropped to a sigh, the sea was silver calm and it was as if time had come to a brief halt and the world was transfixed. All was still.Waiting.

Silently, by means of a series of cautious steps, I edged closer to the resting flock. Reluctant to flee the nearest birds hopped on one leg a few feet further from me, there to stand once more, relaxed and content.

I moved no closer and found a private solace in this beautiful location and the close proximity of the resting plovers. 

The gathering of these small birds became a re-assuring thread of certainty and natural order in the unravelling tapestry of an uncertain and troubled human world. 

Bill Oddie said recently. 'If you are puzzled, angry or just sick to death of politicians. Why not switch to animals and nature ........ Concentrate on the natural world.'

How true.

Shopping for Otters 9th September 2019

This morning it was raining so it seemed appropriate to spend the time going into Brodick, the main town on Arran to do some shopping at the only large store on the island - the Co-op. Brodick is hardly large, consisting of a main street that runs right by a small bay with a variety of shops on one side of the street and a small promenade on the other.

I dropped Mrs U at the Co-op and with her permission drove to a nearby car park to scan some Pied Wagtails running around on the grass, in the hope of finding a White Wagtail amongst them. We agreed to rendezvous on the promenade in thirty minutes.

On making my way to the promenade I found Mrs U standing on the grass and looking at the sea just a few metres beyond. 

Brodick Bay and Goat Fell in the background

She informed me there were three Otters out there and in a minute, sure enough three brown heads surfaced.They were a mother and two fully grown cubs and were pleasingly close to the shore. Excellent - our first Otters on this visit and hopefully a foretaste of more to come although with Otters nothing can be taken for granted.

They were fishing constantly, diving and swimming about and seemed perfectly content where they were in one area of the shallow sea. Regularly they would surface with a small butterfish and crunch it up on the surface with some gusto, their body and tail floating in the water and their head held at an angle proud of the sea as they consumed the unfortunate fish.Then it was back to more diving in a search for yet another fish and from what I could see they were successful more often than not. Each fish they caught was consumed in the sea but a large crab caught by the mother Otter proved harder to cope with at sea and was brought to the shore to be dealt with. Unfortunately we could not see the Otter once she came in under the shelving rock. It would have been so very nice to see an Otter out of the water.

The three Otters always remained close to each other, diving in unison and often surfacing together and the two young Otters would swim each side of the mother, their heads so close they rubbed against hers.

I had, by a stroke of misfortune neglected to bring my camera, hardly expecting to see one, let alone three Otters fishing just the other side of Brodick's main thoroughfare. It was frustrating and I vowed to not make such a mistake again, but I know I will. Instead I concentrated on watching the Otters diving and fishing and enjoyed the simple pleasure of this privileged view of an animal that can be quite elusive and unpredictable in its appearances.

Inevitably our presence aroused the curiosity of others and soon about twenty people were looking at the Otters, most pointing a camera or phone towards them to record the moment. Just as inevitably some had to get closer and this resulted in the Otters retreating further out from the shore but still remaining very visible.

In half an hour the three Otters disappeared, possibly they had their holt in the rocks or nearby at the ferry terminal breakwater but we did not see them again and headed for our home for the week, a cottage at Catacol on the west side of the island.

I was developing a head cold and by early afternoon was sorely in need of tissues so drove from our cottage back to Brodick and the aforesaid Co-op. Having got the tissues I returned to the car, parked by the side of the promenade and gave the sea a casual glance. To my delight I saw an Otter swimming close in to the rocks on the shore. True to my word from this morning I had indeed put the camera in the car but never believed I would need it so soon. I grabbed the camera from the back of the car in seconds.

I walked down from the promenade and dropped a few feet over the wall onto the rocky shore below reasoning my profile would be less obvious to the Otter from there. 

The Otter was swimming just off the rocks

The Otter continued diving and surfacing, a couple of times bringing up a butterfish  which it crunched to death in its jaws, holding its head clear of the water and displaying a formidable set of teeth in the process of munching the fish.

I could see its adaptations to an  aquatic life; the tiny ears and nostrils which it can close underwater, small  eyes set high in a broad squat head and a moustache of plentiful white, bristly whiskers used to sense prey underwater. I followed as it slowly moved along, diving and surfacing close to the shore. It had by now caught a number of butterfish but the latest capture was no less than a small lobster which, like the crab this morning. needed to be dealt with  on land. Otters often bring larger prey to land possibly because it is easier to deal with it there due to the size and  awkwardness of their victim and giving less chance of escape.

The Otter swam straight towards me showing a distinctive pink nose. I crouched down not wishing to alarm it, knowing this might be my chance to get a photo of an Otter on land. It continued its course towards me but then, right at the water's edge, I lost sight of it underneath the shallow lip of the overhanging rock. I waited a minute knowing the Otter was there but with no further sign of it I moved right to the edge, ever so slowly, and peered along the line of the rock assuming it was concealed under the overhang but there was no sign of it. Where could it be? I walked one hesitant step after another, slowly creeping along the edge of the rocks until I came to the tiniest indentation in the rocky ledge, forming a seaweed covered inlet. I looked down into the inlet and an electric thrill ran through me as there was the Otter, no more  than a few feet away, its back to me, the thick brown fur of its body glistening in the sun, fully concentrating on eating the lobster it had caught.

The Otter having its lobster lunch

I stopped in my tracks, not daring to move but the Otter had not heard me and for maybe a minute we were feet apart, the closest I have ever been to a wild Otter, amazed and delighted in equal measure at this  memorable encounter right by a promenade along which people were passing. No one else stopped or even bothered to look.

It could not last of course. Otters have acute sight and hearing and the Otter soon sensed my presence and turned its head slightly in my direction. Still not absolutely sure it turned its head further and saw me.

It instantly slipped back into the water and was gone, resurfacing further out. I looked down to where it had been and all that was left of the lobster were some fragments of blue black shell and one long red feeler.

Truly another memorable encounter on this enchanting island.  

The Booby Prize 2nd September 2019

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I will begin my latest twitching tale. It always starts this way. 

First there came a vague and even now, currently unconfirmed record of a Brown Booby at Swalecliffe, Kent on 19th August, which if true would be a first ever for the British Isles. It subsequently all went quiet for a few days and the sighting became one of those 'might have beens' to be discussed in a pub or on social media.

A week later, on 26th August, a well respected Cornish birder, Kester Wilson (of Alder Flycatcher fame amongst others!) reported a probable Brown Booby seen near St Ive's, Cornwall but as he had only seen the bird without optics from a beach it could not be fully confirmed but everyone interested in rare bird chasing now started to sit up and take serious notice.

Rare birds such as this, more often than not, are found in the furthest and often remotest parts of Britain which I suppose is not unexpected. St Ive's is almost at the westernmost tip of Cornwall so is certainly distant but St Ive's itself is a renowned tourist spot and can hardly be called remote.

The next day the suspicions of a Brown Booby frequenting British waters were confirmed when a subadult Brown Booby was identified in the early morning at St Ive's Bay, fishing briefly with Gannets.Two subsequent sightings claimed in the afternoon proved to  be contentious and confusing as they were thought to be of an immature Gannet which can look similarly brown from a distance.

Nevertheless throughout the land birders made hurried plans to travel to Cornwall from all parts of Britain and maybe beyond. Some had already headed west and arrived in Cornwall.

On Wednesday 28th August the Brown Booby was seen well and photographed passing Carbis Bay and fishing near Godrevy Point on the opposite side of the bay from St Ives. It was aged as either a second year bird or older but not an adult. A full blown twitch was now commencing.

Birders rapidly descended on St Ive's to add to its already chronic parking problems and somehow managed to find an elevated location from which to survey the broad sweep of St Ive's Bay which includes to the east, Carbis Bay, the Hayle Estuary and then beyond to the cliffs of Gwithian Towans, Mexico Towans and Godrevy Point Lighthouse.

On Thursday 29th August the Brown Booby was seen again in the morning, this time fishing close inshore off Gwithian Towans and gave superb views. It then disappeared and was not seen again that day.

Friday the 30th August found many birders ranged at first light along the cliff top at Gwithian Towans in anticipation of a repeat performance from this mega rarity but to their considerable frustration and disappointment there was no sign of the Brown Booby all day. 

Many birders refused to accept defeat and remained overnight, sleeping in cars or finding bed and breakfast accommodation wherever they could, convinced the bird was still around. To add to an already bizarre and unprecedented situation another Brown Booby, an adult, was seen and photographed well, off the northwest coast of Brittany in France.

Saturday the 31st August dawned and the Brown Booby was again found fishing off Gwithian Towans in the morning, much to many a tired, strung out and anxious  birder's relief. It then disappeared only to be sensationally found, at noon, perched on rocks at Porth Gwidden by St Ive's Island. Here it gave point blank views to those lucky enough to be nearby and to those that managed to make the drive through holiday traffic from Gwithian Towans to St Ive's, in time to see it before it flew off. Later a Brown Booby was reported flying west past Pendeen at just after 1pm.

Brown Boobys are normally found in tropical oceans around the world and are common in The Caribbean. Could it be the recent bad weather in that area of the world has displaced one or two to our shores? It seems the most likely explanation.

Where was I in all this you may ask. Well, back in Oxfordshire, cursing my luck as it was impossible to get away from, first a family social commitment on Friday and then a business conference in London on Saturday. It was a waking nightmare of frustration but there was nothing I could do about it but from Saturday night onwards I was at last free and planned to drive overnight to arrive at Gwithian Towans before dawn on Sunday.

For some reason, recalling the on/off appearance of the booby, I booked myself into Penzance Youth Hostel for Sunday night just in case the booby did not show up on Sunday. It turned out to be one of the luckiest decisions I have made for quite some time with regard to twitching rare birds.

On returning from the conference in London I informed my wife of my departure to Cornwall a few hours hence.Well used to such events she wished me well and I set off at midnight to undertake the four hour drive to the far west of Cornwall. The M5 motorway was closed for two junctions and a tedious diversion through west country towns commenced in the wee hours but finally I was back on the motorway.

I was tired and had to stop for a cat nap, then another stop for coffee in the death hour of three am to keep me awake, then finally I crossed from Devon into Cornwall but now came vicious rain showers hitting the windscreen with some force. My wife had told me it was predicted to be sunny in Cornwall. Had she got it wrong? I consulted the weather app on my phone and it showed rain showers until six am at St Ive's then sun, so my spirits, currently sinking ever lower with tiredness and the rain, revived somewhat.

I came to Hayle and turned up a side road, rising upwards for some miles to reach a deserted and rough track and following the Satnav instructions came to the large car park at Gwithian Towans looking out directly onto the wide sweep of St Ive's Bay and Godrevy Lighthouse to my right. It was still dark and raining.The lights of St Ive's, far off across the bay, flickered through the rain water  streaming down the windscreen. Revelling in the fact I had finally got here and there was no more driving I put the seat back and settled into a fitful sleep. It would not be dawn for another hour. I dozed rather than slept, conscious of other cars drawing up alongside and further about me in the car park. Birders were arriving en masse.This was going to be a big one. The rain showers continued to rattle on the car and then dawn was upon us.

The rain, as predicted, cleared and I put on warm clothing to counter the strong northwest wind blowing directly in from the sea and up and over the low cliff. The door of the car next to me opened and out stepped Gary Bagnell. 

'Hello Baggers I thought you had already seen the booby?'

He told me he was not satisfied with the views he had got on 27th August as they were so inconclusive and could easily have been an immature Gannet. He had decided to drive all the way from Sussex to try for a second time. Rather him than me but there again that is the obsessive compulsion that compels us to go twitching

Slowly everyone arranged themselves along the top of the grassy cliff top, while some stood lower down in the grass below and we all commenced scanning the sea as the light slowly improved.There were quite a number of Gannets fishing in the bay but many were distant, flying near to St Ives which is about 4kms away across the bay. It was not long before someone lower down in the grass claimed to have the booby in his scope. A surge of birders hurtled towards him and anxious demands for directions came thick and fast. It turned out the bird in question was miles away just under the beach huts at St Ive's and was no more than a brown speck that disappeared almost as fast as it had materialised.There was no way this could be ticked although there were some willing to do so. Tired, dishevelled and frustrated, my eyes watered with the effort of viewing at such a distance and I gave up looking for it.

Through the next few hours various shouts went up, all concerning large brown birds flying near to St Ive's. All were probably brown coloured immature Gannets but we would surely learn from the birders ranged on the Coastguard Lookout at St Ive's if the booby was indeed over there. It turned out it was not. As predicted the morning became sunny but still rather cold due to the strong wind blowing in off the sea. Further back from the cliff it was warmer and some birders had retreated to there.

Far out to sea birds were moving across the bay. Gannets, shining white in the sunlight and stark against the blue sea, fished and dived in spectacular fashion. Manx Shearwaters started to appear about an hour after sunrise, hundreds of them, their small shapes flickering black and white as they rounded Godrevy Point and crossed the bay to pass by St Ive's Island. Arctic and Great Skuas were called but again were eye wateringly distant. Finally a closer bird passed by, a Grey Phalarope, that flew through the surf over a beach now exposed by the falling tide and becoming populated by dog walkers and surfers.

For six hours we stood and looked out to sea but there was no sign of the booby. Many birders had given up looking and were either asleep. chatting or waiting to see if anyone else would find the booby. Occasional calls were made but they all involved distant birds, frankly unidentifiable at such a distance and probably reflected hope rather than expectation. The car park was now almost full, mostly with birder's cars and the cafe began to do a brisk trade from holiday makers, surfers and birders alike. A coffee sustained me but by noon I knew the game was up. The booby had never been seen in the afternoon. It was now a question of contemplating spending a night in the youth hostel, sharing a dormitory room with strangers and hoping the booby might show up tomorrow.

I now had an entire afternoon in which to go and find something to occupy me.What could I do?

I settled on going to see a Western Bonelli's Warbler at Trevescan, a forty five minute drive west. The day was now hot and sunny and under normal circumstances would have been a delight but the lack of a Brown Booby hung like a malignant shadow over me.

At Trevescan I stood on a grassy path by a hedge and looked at a large conifer and a pittosporum bush in the corner of a cottage's back garden.Twenty minutes later a pale, open faced phylloscopus warbler flicked into the trees and showed itself briefly. Its call was distinctive. It was the Bonelli's. It disappeared and another wait of forty five minutes ensued before I got another view. After this I called it quits. There were many people coming to see the warbler, far more than would be normal and presumably this was an overspill of birders disappointed at not seeing the booby and determined to make the best of it.

I left the quaint and pleasant little village of Trevescan and headed back to Gwithian but tiredness had finally got the better of me and I had reached that point of really having no idea of where to go or what to do. Dazed, I contemplated giving up entirely, heading for home  and forgetting all about staying at the Youth Hostel.

After messing around at Hayle, filling up the car with diesel at Tesco in Penzance and tiring of the holiday traffic I sought the leafy confines of Penzance Youth Hostel and after a beer settled into my dormitory room. It was pleasant enough as were my two companions and I was asleep by eight thirty. Dog tired, fed up and depressed, a bed  and oblivion were never more welcome.

Tomorrow I would be up at five am to once more drive to Gwithian Towans to repeat the torment of today but with, hopefully, a more positive end result. Maybe with a decent night's sleep I would feel more optimistic about matters.

When I left the hostel the next morning it was raining but as with yesterday it was predicted to cease by six am and then it would be sunny for the rest of the day. I arrived at the now familiar car park and repeated the performance of yesterday. There were markedly less birders now, only about forty. Many who were present yesterday had to go back to work, it being a Monday but others like me had elected to remain overnight, just in case. We duly lined up near to each other so we could follow calls about the booby if anyone should see it.

We stood and scanned the sea but nothing remotely like a booby was evident. The wind was now much lighter than yesterday and the number of Gannets had fallen to just a few. The Manx Shearwaters came again after an hour or so and I managed to find a Bonxie and an Arctic Skua or two, even a Pomarine Skua.

A sense of expectation descended upon us when the hour of nine am approached, as this was when the booby had been seen on Saturday from this very location but it was not to be. The time slipped by agonisingly as slowly the realisation of another no show dawned on us. Two Ravens cronked as they flew west along the cliff.

Birders started chatting, always a bad sign, others went for a coffee in the cafe and yet others admired the lady surfers in their wet suits on the beach. Concentration was lapsing rapidly and we were resigned to the fact that the chance to see a Brown Booby had slipped by.

A huge female Peregine came along the cliff edge and spotting two Woodpigeons set off after them over the sea.We were treated to a spectacular but ultimately unsuccessful chase right in front of us before the Peregrine once more did a fly past and was gone westward on the wind. An unseen stonechat repeatedly gave its alarm call from behind us in the brambles at the top of the car park and two Curlew flew in off the sea.Yet again another Grey Phalarope flew along the surfline of sea and beach.

I had accepted my defeat.We all had.What more could we do? It was not going to happen although some of us still scoped the sea, back and fore, as if willing the booby to magically appear. Some birders had sensibly adjourned for breakfast in the cafe at the back of the car park.

I cannot remember exactly what time it was when it all changed but a slight stirring and a buzz of conversation commenced to my right, somewhere around ten thirty am. I was, at that moment, mentally planning my departure for home when a birder to my right announced 'The booby is at Kynance Cove on The Lizard.' Apparently RBA (Rare Bird Alert) had just reported the Brown Booby was at The Lizard which is on the opposite coast of Cornwall to where we were. The news passed instantly through our ranks and everyone there and then, without any query, made for their cars parked row upon row behind us. Here we go. One last chance. Destiny one way or the other now lay at The Lizard.

I was unsure of the best route or even how to get to The Lizard but the two birders I had been standing next to did and I opted to follow them in their small grey car, nose to tail out of the car park with at least two other cars following me. I kept very close as I was totally dependent on those in the grey car to guide me unwittingly to Kynance Cove and it was essential I did not lose them in traffic as they would not be hanging about. It was everyone for themselves now. It took seemingly forever to get along the track from the car park as a departing holiday maker insisted on bringing his car to an almost dead halt at each speed bump. Other birders were running back up the track to their distant cars, where they had left them to avoid paying the car park charges at Gwithian. I wondered about stopping to offer a lift but could not as I had to keep the grey car in my sights.

Finally we were on the road proper and descending back to Hayle. 'Do not lose them at the roundabout Ewan' I muttered to myself. I followed them over the mini roundabout as did a car with two birders behind me, just before a bus would have cut us off. Phew almost! We were heading across Cornwall now to the southern coast on a forty minute journey, via a route unknown to me but those in front obviously knew what they were doing. Then a huge truck slowed our pace and we had no choice but to follow it for mile after mile down the winding and narrow road. Definitely no overtaking.

A million anxieties were pulsing through my head, chief of which was not to lose touch with the grey car in front of me, currently my saviour and guide to Kynance Cove. Other worries multiplied. What if the bird is no longer there? It was too awful to contemplate. What was it doing when reported? When was it last seen? I had no way of knowing. At least the car in front and behind, each with a passenger as well as a driver could update themselves en route. I was, conversely, totally in the dark, having to concentrate solely on driving and with no means of accessing any updated information about the booby.

The truck eventually turned right and we gained speed, hurtling straight on. We came to another roundabout but still I stayed in contact as did the car following me. A junction where we turned right posed more problems as a car got in front of me, separating me from the grey car ahead.We joined a long line of slow moving cars tailing a dogged tractor and trailer. Eventually that too turned off and we picked up speed again. I kept the grey car in sight as we passed the eyesore of RNAS Culdrose. On and on we went, faster, slower, then faster again. The car between me and the grey car turned off left and I was back nose to tail with my guide car. My phone rang. It was Mark who had seen the Brown Booby on Friday. Before he could say anything  I shouted in adrenalin fuelled excitement 

'Yes I know! We are almost there! 

'Good luck, let me know' he shouted back and rung off.

Stupidly, due to my over excitement, I had forgotten to ask Mark for more details about the sighting. If it was sat on a rock I was in with a chance, if flying about it was not so good. Never mind, there was nothing I or anyone else could do but just get to Kynance Cove as fast as we could. The road was open and we put on speed only for a lumbering Volvo to pull out from a side road without looking and causing the grey car in front to brake and swerve round it. I tried to follow but a car was coming the other way. The Volvo driver blissfully unaware of his or her narrow escape dawdled along and I struggled to keep the grey car in sight. I saw it turn off right, the sign indicating Kynance Cove. Good I could follow and get rid of the Volvo but no the Volvo was going to Kynance Cove too. It slowed to a snail's pace and I soon lost sight of the fast moving grey car and I had no choice but to grit my teeth and follow the Volvo. There was now no sign of the grey car and I was on my own. I came to a car park on my left but this surely was not the right one. An instant decison had to be made. I drove straight on and followed the Volvo. Eventually we came to a large car park, looking to be almost full of cars and which was obviously the right place.

Kynance Cove is owned by  The National Trust and a volunteer on the gate asked if I was a member. 

'Yes but can I show you my membership card on the way out as there is a rare bird I am desperate to see'. 

He obviously knew what was going on and let me pass. I was directed through the main car park to an overflow car park that had been just opened to accommodate the influx of twitchers cars. A young female volunteer was panicking 

'Why is everyone in such a hurry, it's getting dangerous with all these cars arriving at once'. 

I drove onwards into a field and was directed by another older lady volunteer to drive to a far corner of the field. Her directions were ambiguous and of course in my haste I got it wrong and incurred her displeasure. She had not an iota of charm or humour. The kind of person who given the smallest amount of authority and power over people promptly decides to abuse it. 

'Stop driving so fast' she commanded 'What's the hurry'. 

I was doing 20mph. She was becoming increasingly annoying and I tried to explain about the booby but she was not interested. She rounded on another fellow twitcher who had the temerity to park his car out of line.

By now I had joined the other two birders that had followed me all the way from Gwithian in their car and learned that the booby was currently perched at a place called Pyramid Rock but where was that? A headless chicken moment arrived as we panicked not knowing where to go. The charmless lady told us we had to pay for the car park.We ignored her.

There was an obvious path leading downwards to a beach. Was this the right way to the Brown Booby? I asked two ladies nearby. They were American and looked at me as if I was deranged.

We looked around and saw that some other birders were heading in the opposite direction. 

'Quick follow them they seem to know where they are going'. 

We ran up the sloping field and back through the main car park. Then we saw it. Off to our right was indeed a huge pyramid of rock standing offshore. Surely that must be it but how do we get to it? We followed another path a bit further up and then could see a line of birders scoping the rock from the edge of a precipitous cliff.

Pyramid Rock.The Brown Booby was perched on the smallest triangle of rock
to the extreme left

'They do not seem to be looking at anything' one of my colleagues said. 

'Yes they are, don't worry'. I replied although none too sure I was correct. 

We ran down a slope towards the birders and a passing couple smiled and uttered the magic words 

'It's still there!' 

I met a familiar face, Stuart, in amongst the crowd of birders and he told me where to look on Pyramid Rock. 

'It's on the left hand side of the small triangular rock by the main Pyramid Rock, just down from a Shag which is perched above it'

I had erected my scope's tripod on my hasty descent down the slope and now looked out to the rock in question and there - at last - a Brown Booby was perched, preening on the edge of the rock, in the sun, as if it had not a care in the world.

Moments like this are almost beyond words. A mental log jam of pent up emotion, worry, anxiety stress, care, panic, all melt away in a wave of euphoria, and as an inner calm replaces the tension everyone becomes everyone else's good friend. No rancour, argument or complaint for we are all as happy as can be and life is the sweetest it has ever been at this precise moment. The gamble has paid off once more and the addiction to a legal drug called twitching is confirmed and satisfied yet again.

The Brown Booby remained on its rocky perch, idly preening in the sun. It spent at least forty five minutes sorting through its feathers, wing stretching and just looking about, every so often languidly adjusting another feather or two. It looked scruffy as if in moult. Overall it was a faded pale brown on its upperparts rather than the dark chocolate brown of an adult, and white below with  a bluish tinge to its beak. Its head and breast were also pale brown and when, later, it flew, I could see broad white panels on its underwings. Amazingly it is considered to be a different bird to the one we had all been hoping to see at Gwithian Towans but others disagree so we will just have to wait and see but that, for now, was inconsequential. What really really mattered was we had seen a Brown Booby after what had been hours, nay days, of anxious hoping.

More people joined us and there was quite a gathering not only of birders but curious holidaymakers as well. The booby was perched on a rock in the most beautiful scenery you could imagine, the brown/black cliffs topped with short green turf standing magnificently above a sea of pure turquoise blue. What a way to bring an end to my quest.

After a while the booby stopped preening and started looking about which is often a prelude to a bird flying and it duly did just that, dropping from the cliff to sweep low over the sea and then fly around Kynance Cove below us, giving tremendous views in the scope as it came close by us. It circled a couple of times and dived into the turquoise waters, surfacing with a fish which it rapidly swallowed.

Then it flew out and around the small headland we were standing on and into the bay on the other side where it commenced fishing with some purpose and very much in the same fashion as a Gannet. It looked to me more gawky and angular than a Gannet, maybe smaller too although its flight was similar but with stiffer, more rapid wing beats and it dived in a similar fashion but not from quite so far up. It was successful in most of its dives, rising up from being submerged and consuming the fish on the sea's surface before flapping clumsily across the water to become airborne. It repeated its circling and diving a number of times before returning to the same rock where it had been when we first arrived  but this time perched out of sight on the other side of the rock.

I had watched the Brown Booby for an hour and a half and had seen it so well I truly felt blessed, especially to watch it fishing literally just below us.

The long drive home, tired as I was would be a doddle, undertaken in a cloud of euphoria and sense of well being.

Job done.