April 2021 No. 9
LOCKDOWN ON ORKNEY We could all see it coming by Nicki Gwynn-Jones FRPS I managed a mad dash around some of my favourite photographic spots in the few days before our lives were brought to a crashing halt, knowing that my wings were about to be severely clipped. We moved to Orkney in July 2016 and bought a house on a remote north eastern corner of Mainland, the largest island of the archipelago. It is stunningly beautiful but remote, and with most car journeys now banned I knew that I was finally going to have to explore my home patch, which shamefully I had always passed over in favour of more obvious locations.
We are surrounded by water on three sides The North Sea and Mull Head lie to the east, while the Shapinsay Sound is to the north, along with views across to the islands of Shapinsay, Eday, Sanday, Stronsay and Auskerry. To the west lies Kirkwall … and more sea. Our road is single track with passing places and the surrounding fields are scruffy, although John Taylor’s sheep and thousands of over-wintering geese seem to like them right enough. But running along the eastern edge of the peninsula are cliffs … and seabirds!
Shag with nesting material
Right on cue the weather turned foul; there is little between us and the Arctic, and the cruel north wind brought gales and blizzards.
It was that act of concentration which brought me back into the present moment and I began to feel calmer.
I spent the first few days trudging sorrowfully through sodden rough grass and mud - there are no paths here - my shoulders getting tighter and tighter in response to the freezing conditions, the weight of my camera gear and the almost overwhelming feelings of anxiety and stress.
Over the course of the next few days I realised that I was starting to pay closer attention to my surroundings; I saw that the birds were looking smart the pretty tysties’ red legs contrasting beautifully with their black and white tuxedos, and the shags (there are hundreds!) resplendent in their iridescent breeding plumage.
The weather matched my mood, but as I grimly stuck it out on the exposed cliffs at Rerwick Head, blizzarding snow tormenting me and turning my hands to lumps of ice, the gannets and fulmars appeared. To see these birds soaring effortlessly so close to the raging sea, one wing tip skimming the wave tops like an America’s Cup hydrofoil, is thrilling; I love trying to capture birds in flight, but the light levels were very low and the wind was high, so I had to summon all my powers of concentration in order to create any half decent images. No tripods here.
I became bewitched by the tumbling courtship of lapwings… was haunted by wild lamenting curlews and gave thanks for the brightly coloured, permanently overexcited oystercatchers. However, the dial was still very much set to gloom as I began to explore the clifftops within a mile or so of home.