Seabirds at Bempton

He spreads his wings to stabilise himself as the persistent wind tries to prise him from the cliff-face. The gannet collects precious nesting material as his beak wrenches grass from the ledge on this sheer drop.

For another bird, it’s time to go. Pushing off from the rock, wings spread, she seems to have no fear of falling as she slides through the snowstorm of seabirds without collision.

The puffin perches nearby. Her wings must beat 400 times per minute to fly. Goodness knows how she got up here, but here she stands in her orange wellies. Her nearest companions are two razorbills who converse loudly, seeming not to have noticed her. With no other puffins to chat with, she calmly surveys the ruckus, preening a silky black wing with her striking beak.

A less respectful razorbill flies up to land on her narrow strip of grass. Her five minutes of peace are over, and she launches down into the wind, as the newcomer makes himself at home.

A slightly larger puffin spots a friend on an exposed outcrop and decides to join them. Waddle, waddle, hop. Over the shrubbery. He stabilises himself above her and they both look out to sea. She leans forward, just a fraction, then springboards away from the cliff-city. Flap, flap, flapping over the waves. Unperturbed, he stays where he is. His colourful beak stands out among the razorbills. In a few minutes she returns, landing with her feet flat against the rock. It was a lot of effort just to land a little higher up the cliff, but it’s the only option. Her flat feet aren’t well designed for scaling a cliff face.

Happier now with her position, she begins to preen. Head nuzzling under her wing, she curves her neck back to reach her tail feathers. She raises her wings up and gives them a quick shake before resuming the comfy position of plump puffin on a rock. It suits her well, and there she stays as a squadron of gannets flies past the abandoned site of RAF Bempton.