ColinD
Well-known member
Over the years I’ve been to many sea bird colonies in the UK, including Hermaness, Handa, Cape Wrath, Noss, Bempton Cliffs, Farne Islands etc., but I would have to say that in my opinion, nowhere comes close to the spectacle of St Kilda.
I visited the island in 1987. In those days, there were three ways to get there, 1) join the army, 2) go with a National Trust work party or 3) charter a boat and go as a private party. The first two options seemed too much like hard work, so we took option 3.
Twelve of us plus crew set sail from Oban at about 9am one June morning in 1987. We sailed up the Sound of Mull and after a brief stop at Tobemorey on Mull, we headed out into the Minch. It was a glorious day, if a little breezy, as we sailed past Rum and Canna and onto southern Skye, and saw the Cullins from a whole new perspective. I can’t remember exactly what time we reached Lochmaddy on North Uist, but it was sometime in the evening, and the skipper took the boat in for a rest. Incredibly, my friend who was leading the trip, knew somebody on the island, and we walked around to his house, unannounced and enjoyed a drink with him. I love the Hebridean accent, it almost sounds like they’re singing, or perhaps it was the influence of the alcohol.
It was dark when we sailed out of Lochmaddy, and headed for the Sound of Harris. The boat was only a small ex-fishing boat, with a few bunk beds below deck, but I attempted to get some sleep. However, after a short while decided that it was useless, and I went back up onto the deck. I was glad I did, because I was about to see a sight which has stuck with me ever since.
By now the wind had got up and the boat was starting to bounce about on the swell. I climbed a ladder to the deck, and looked out to see a bright, white moon shining and reflecting across the water. I could see the dim outline of North Uist in the distance, and next to the boat four dolphins were jumping and swimming with us, so close they were almost within touching distance. My friend was in the cabin with the skipper and he shouted me to make a brew. So it was back down the ladder and into the “kitchen”. Don’t know if you’ve ever tried to carry three mugs of tea up a ladder, onto the deck of a boat, walk across the deck (with a safety rail only about a foot high) and into a small cabin, by moonlight, slightly under the influence, whilst the boat is bouncing up and down, but I can promise you that by the time you get to the cabin, you have less tea than you started with.
More alarming was the reason why my friend was with the skipper in the cabin. Turns out that the skipper had never been through the Sound of Harris, and my friend was advising him on the best way to go! In the dark. Again, not sure if you’ve been through the Sound of Harris, but there’s a fair few islands, and even more rocky outcrops. Worrying to say the least. I went back to my bunk.
I woke up about 6am and went on deck. It was now daylight, and in the distance I could see what looked like the lower jaw bone of a giant. The dramatic peaks of St Kilda, still a few miles off, but towering out of the sea and holding the attention. I reeled off the names in my mind, Stac Lee, Stac an Armin, Boreray, Conachair, I was sure that I could see them all. And the boat was now surrounded by sea birds, Gannets, skuas, auks, Kittiwakes, Fulmars, Manx Shearwaters and Leaches and Storm petrels, masses of them as far as the eye could see.
We arrived at Village Bay, Hirta, at about 11am, 26 hours after leaving Oban, and were helped ashore by some army guys. At the time there was still a small army base on the island, the only human inhabitants, and they couldn’t do enough for us during our stay, (which may have partly been because we had three women with us). After a short introduction speech by the islands warden about where we could and could not go, we got the tents up and set about exploring the island.
It was a very odd experience. Hirta, the main island is about one mile long by a mile wide. The only flat bit is the main street in Village Bay, everywhere else is very steep. Village Bay itself was almost ghostly. The island was abandoned in the 1930’s, and most of the houses were derelict, or in the process of being renovated by the National Trust, but all were empty. I don’t think that there was a National Trust work party on the island while we were there.
The most impressive cliff on the island is Conachair, which rises to about 1500 feet. This is arguably the highest sea cliff in Britain, though some say that Foula in Shetland is higher. Conachair is covered in Fulmars, 10,000 pairs in 1987, and I remember finding a good vantage point and scanning the cliff, with a St Kilda Wren in full song alongside me. I can’t wait for the day that DNA proves the St Kilda Wren to be a separate species. What a blocker that will be!
Other cliffs on the island held many thousands of pairs of auks and Kittiwakes, whilst inland there was a good colony of Great Skuas. As we looked across to the spectacular island of Soay, we could see the famous sheep, whose origins are (or were) a mystery, and bizarrely as we watched, a flock of about 12 White-fronted Geese flew past. In June?
There are many memories. On one occasion we spent the night on the slopes and cliffs of Carn Mor, and heard the purring of two species of petrel and the eerie calls of shearwaters as they returned to their burrows. One shearwater clipped me with its wing as if rocketed past. In fact petrels were everywhere on the island. We even had a Storm Petrel purring at night in the wall which surrounded our campsite.
One advantage of the army base was that they did provide us with entertainment at night, in that most salubrious of establishments, “The Puff Inn”. In reality it was just a small bar, which sold cans of beer, but during our 10 day stay on the island they held two fancy dress balls and a couple of evenings horse racing with wooden horses and a dice. They also occasionally provided us with food prepared by the army chef, including locally caught crab.
Finally, they took us out in their boats, and notably landed us on the island of Dun, which is adjacent to Hirta. This one of the main islands for Puffins in the group, with 70,000 pairs in 1987. Puffins were everywhere, almost within touching distance, an incredible experience.
St. Kilda holds one of the largest Gannet colonies in the World, with around 50,000 pairs in 1987, but they are all on the almost inaccessible islands of Stac Lee, Stac an Armin and Boreray. My friend is one of only a handful of people to have landed on and climbed all of these islands, but it’s virtually impossible to land due to the massive swell, and ropes and climbing experience are required for the Stacs. Stac Lee in particular has a massive overhang which needs to be negotiated.
These three islands dominate the seascape on Hirta, towering out of the sea about two miles distant, to hights of around 600, 800 and 1200 feet, and they glow white with Gannets and their droppings. The closest we came to them was on our return journey when our boat circled them a couple of times.
I’ve just returned from an excellent visit to the Farnes, and it is a wonderful place which I try to get to every year, because it gives me a brief taste of St Kilda. I love the whole of the Northumberland coast. However, to compare the Farnes to St Kilda would be like comparing the Canada Geese on you local park lake with 20,000 wild Pink-feet. It’s a different league. St Kilda is one of the great birding experiences, on a par with anywhere in the World.
I visited the island in 1987. In those days, there were three ways to get there, 1) join the army, 2) go with a National Trust work party or 3) charter a boat and go as a private party. The first two options seemed too much like hard work, so we took option 3.
Twelve of us plus crew set sail from Oban at about 9am one June morning in 1987. We sailed up the Sound of Mull and after a brief stop at Tobemorey on Mull, we headed out into the Minch. It was a glorious day, if a little breezy, as we sailed past Rum and Canna and onto southern Skye, and saw the Cullins from a whole new perspective. I can’t remember exactly what time we reached Lochmaddy on North Uist, but it was sometime in the evening, and the skipper took the boat in for a rest. Incredibly, my friend who was leading the trip, knew somebody on the island, and we walked around to his house, unannounced and enjoyed a drink with him. I love the Hebridean accent, it almost sounds like they’re singing, or perhaps it was the influence of the alcohol.
It was dark when we sailed out of Lochmaddy, and headed for the Sound of Harris. The boat was only a small ex-fishing boat, with a few bunk beds below deck, but I attempted to get some sleep. However, after a short while decided that it was useless, and I went back up onto the deck. I was glad I did, because I was about to see a sight which has stuck with me ever since.
By now the wind had got up and the boat was starting to bounce about on the swell. I climbed a ladder to the deck, and looked out to see a bright, white moon shining and reflecting across the water. I could see the dim outline of North Uist in the distance, and next to the boat four dolphins were jumping and swimming with us, so close they were almost within touching distance. My friend was in the cabin with the skipper and he shouted me to make a brew. So it was back down the ladder and into the “kitchen”. Don’t know if you’ve ever tried to carry three mugs of tea up a ladder, onto the deck of a boat, walk across the deck (with a safety rail only about a foot high) and into a small cabin, by moonlight, slightly under the influence, whilst the boat is bouncing up and down, but I can promise you that by the time you get to the cabin, you have less tea than you started with.
More alarming was the reason why my friend was with the skipper in the cabin. Turns out that the skipper had never been through the Sound of Harris, and my friend was advising him on the best way to go! In the dark. Again, not sure if you’ve been through the Sound of Harris, but there’s a fair few islands, and even more rocky outcrops. Worrying to say the least. I went back to my bunk.
I woke up about 6am and went on deck. It was now daylight, and in the distance I could see what looked like the lower jaw bone of a giant. The dramatic peaks of St Kilda, still a few miles off, but towering out of the sea and holding the attention. I reeled off the names in my mind, Stac Lee, Stac an Armin, Boreray, Conachair, I was sure that I could see them all. And the boat was now surrounded by sea birds, Gannets, skuas, auks, Kittiwakes, Fulmars, Manx Shearwaters and Leaches and Storm petrels, masses of them as far as the eye could see.
We arrived at Village Bay, Hirta, at about 11am, 26 hours after leaving Oban, and were helped ashore by some army guys. At the time there was still a small army base on the island, the only human inhabitants, and they couldn’t do enough for us during our stay, (which may have partly been because we had three women with us). After a short introduction speech by the islands warden about where we could and could not go, we got the tents up and set about exploring the island.
It was a very odd experience. Hirta, the main island is about one mile long by a mile wide. The only flat bit is the main street in Village Bay, everywhere else is very steep. Village Bay itself was almost ghostly. The island was abandoned in the 1930’s, and most of the houses were derelict, or in the process of being renovated by the National Trust, but all were empty. I don’t think that there was a National Trust work party on the island while we were there.
The most impressive cliff on the island is Conachair, which rises to about 1500 feet. This is arguably the highest sea cliff in Britain, though some say that Foula in Shetland is higher. Conachair is covered in Fulmars, 10,000 pairs in 1987, and I remember finding a good vantage point and scanning the cliff, with a St Kilda Wren in full song alongside me. I can’t wait for the day that DNA proves the St Kilda Wren to be a separate species. What a blocker that will be!
Other cliffs on the island held many thousands of pairs of auks and Kittiwakes, whilst inland there was a good colony of Great Skuas. As we looked across to the spectacular island of Soay, we could see the famous sheep, whose origins are (or were) a mystery, and bizarrely as we watched, a flock of about 12 White-fronted Geese flew past. In June?
There are many memories. On one occasion we spent the night on the slopes and cliffs of Carn Mor, and heard the purring of two species of petrel and the eerie calls of shearwaters as they returned to their burrows. One shearwater clipped me with its wing as if rocketed past. In fact petrels were everywhere on the island. We even had a Storm Petrel purring at night in the wall which surrounded our campsite.
One advantage of the army base was that they did provide us with entertainment at night, in that most salubrious of establishments, “The Puff Inn”. In reality it was just a small bar, which sold cans of beer, but during our 10 day stay on the island they held two fancy dress balls and a couple of evenings horse racing with wooden horses and a dice. They also occasionally provided us with food prepared by the army chef, including locally caught crab.
Finally, they took us out in their boats, and notably landed us on the island of Dun, which is adjacent to Hirta. This one of the main islands for Puffins in the group, with 70,000 pairs in 1987. Puffins were everywhere, almost within touching distance, an incredible experience.
St. Kilda holds one of the largest Gannet colonies in the World, with around 50,000 pairs in 1987, but they are all on the almost inaccessible islands of Stac Lee, Stac an Armin and Boreray. My friend is one of only a handful of people to have landed on and climbed all of these islands, but it’s virtually impossible to land due to the massive swell, and ropes and climbing experience are required for the Stacs. Stac Lee in particular has a massive overhang which needs to be negotiated.
These three islands dominate the seascape on Hirta, towering out of the sea about two miles distant, to hights of around 600, 800 and 1200 feet, and they glow white with Gannets and their droppings. The closest we came to them was on our return journey when our boat circled them a couple of times.
I’ve just returned from an excellent visit to the Farnes, and it is a wonderful place which I try to get to every year, because it gives me a brief taste of St Kilda. I love the whole of the Northumberland coast. However, to compare the Farnes to St Kilda would be like comparing the Canada Geese on you local park lake with 20,000 wild Pink-feet. It’s a different league. St Kilda is one of the great birding experiences, on a par with anywhere in the World.
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