Soaring with strong winds in their wings, small flocks of Woodpigeon are carried over the woodland at great speed. It’s dark here this early, with heavy grey cloud hanging over the canopy of swaying branches. I don’t notice the Kestrel perched just meters away me, until it hops into flight and towards the meadow.
The woodchip path is soggy. Acorn cups and fallen leaves; yellow, green, and brown, sink into shallow puddles turning to mulch. Surrounding logs are lined with Turkey Tail shelves and ooze sticky Witches Butter. Beauty pink blossom upon the Cherry.
It’s quiet alongside the Dell; unusual to hear no birdsong from the bridge. Suddenly the reason becomes clear - alarm calls ring out as a bird of prey swoops down into the Hawthorn. A Sparrowhawk emerges from its attack unsuccessful, and shoots towards the north end of the bay.
Below, a good few Shags float independently and in lee of the headland, riding the softened swells before diving out of sight.
The full force of the westerly winds are revealed as I turn the head. I hang onto my cap as the air fills my nostrils and it gets harder to breathe. Next to me, a Goldfinch in full colour, clinging to the swinging Tamarisk. It’s yellow wing feathers reflecting the flowering Gorse and little red face that of the surrounding Rosehips.
As I reach the Observation Point the wind now rattles around my ears and water streams from eyes. Six Fulmars float to and from the cliffs. Their wings outstretched and steady, they glide from left to right, feet flailing behind and never quite coming in to land.
Guillemots flap their wings with all their might below, battling their way up to the cliff ledge some 30’ above the water. Also on the wing, Herring Gulls, more Shags, and more Woodpigeon - racing by in unison, an impressive ‘swoosh’ as they pass.
The sea is messy at Tilly Whim. If it were boiling over on Saturday, it is now violent chemical reaction catalysed by steadfast rocks. Water foams in the cauldron, spills over the cliffs and bursts through the blow hole.