Gannet

We’re perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the island of Skomer. G has his binoculars raised, scouring the horizon for birds, I’m crouched over my camera, 600mm lens at the ready. ‘There’, shouts G. ‘Two incoming over the headland.’ I point my lens in the direction of two tiny shallow Vs high in the sky, following them as they come closer. We’ve worked out that this is their route. They fly-glide along the cliffs, turning south as they approach the island. The secret is to follow them, keeping them in sight until that perfect moment just before the turn. 

Of course, it’s easier said than done, and this military process is repeated until I feel I’ve got the best shot possible. Far from perfect, but so much better than any of my previous efforts. I tried yesterday on Marloes Sands, watching them dive headlong into the water, arrow-sharp, but picking out their white against the clouds had been impossible, and I missed repeatedly.

I’m ashamed to say until last year, I knew nothing of the beauty of gannets.  That wonderful sculpted head and beak, deeply etched, it seems, in inky black ; rich blue eyes deeply set into a mellow yellow plumage melting into snowy white, and elegant wings tipped in black that articulate into missile-fins when plunging down into the ocean. So like their gaudier relatives, the boobies of the Galapagos, mesmerising to watch. 

In Scotland, I tried in vain to photograph their flights, but failed miserably. In my ignorance, I did not even know that  Pembrokeshire is gannet territory, so when I spotted them last Sunday - once over my initial excitement - I tried again in vain to get a decent shot. Today, I’m satisfied. Hopefully, next time, there’ll be a sharper, clearer capture, but for now I’m more than happy to have come this close.