‘Soaring, graceful, and swift’: Soaking up the seabird spectacular at RSPB Bempton Cliffs
UNDER THREAT: A puffin with sand eels at RSPB Bempton Cliffs. Picture by Chris Gomersall / RSPB-Images.com
This Place, a column by Vicky Foster
A wild evening with seabirds at RSPB Bempton Cliffs
Tucked away on the East Yorkshire coast, between Flamborough Head and Reighton Gap, is the pretty little village of Bempton. The 2021 census shows its population as 1,026, but between March and October its RSPB nature reserve is also home to half a million seabirds.
When I pull into the car park on a wet Friday evening, there are only a few cars parked up, and when I enter the visitor centre, the friendly woman working on the door tells me I’m visitor number 132 today.
I was here on Sunday too, when it was warm and sunny, and the café was packed with people, the paths and viewing points crowded by cameras and binoculars.
‘BEAUTIFUL TO WATCH’: Gannets at RSPB Bempton Cliffs. Picture by Katie Nethercoat / RSPB-Images.com
I’m a member of the RSPB, so I show her my details and don’t have to pay – if I did, it would have cost me £7. It’s £4 for kids, but the first child goes free, and there are reductions for students and free entry for carers. I’m paying £6 per month for a couples’ membership, which is good value, because I’m planning to come here a lot. But it also helps support the RSPB, who on their website have lots of detail about the work they do, but to sum it up, their mission statement is: “Nature is in crisis. Together, we can save it.”
My overriding thought when I came here first, was what would all these birds do if the RSPB didn’t preserve this land?
The beautiful little Bloomsbury booklet I bought in the gift shop, to help me identify the different types of coastal birds I might see, lists Bempton Cliffs as one of three “key mainland sites” in the UK, and it’s worth mentioning that if, like me, you love a good gift shop, you won’t be disappointed by the one in the visitor centre here. It’s packed with walking equipment, puffin soft toys, binoculars, books, mugs, coasters, flasks. There’s also a cafe, and a huge car park. But of course, these are not the reasons people come. I’m hardly through the door before I hear two women excitedly discussing the puffins: “That was amazing – I’ve never seen one in real life! I can’t believe it!”
‘THE THRILL OF NEAR-MISSES AND SYNCHRONISED MOVEMENT’: Gannets at RSPB Bempton Cliffs. Picture by Katie Nethercoat RSPB-Images.com
I’ve purposely left it late to come today, because I know that although the visitor centre closes at 5pm, I will still have access to the cliffs until dusk. I’m hoping this will mean it’s quieter than it was at the weekend. I make my way outside and find I was right. I can see only one other figure in the distance. The wide grassy area that gives way to the sea is misted with drizzle and the calls of gulls are echoing in the sky, birds circling slowly above me. I stop to watch them a while, soaring and diving. It’s so soothing, but I don’t hang around too long, because I know this is just the prelude. The grand show is happening just steps away.
I’ve wrapped up warm, which is just as well because as I arrive at the first viewing point I find the sea choppy, crashing and roaring against the chalk cliffs. A raw wind is rising up from it, buffeting the birds as they take off and land, a constant cyclical movement from sea to sky to cliff and back again.
There are hundreds – maybe thousands – of birds at this one point, tucked in close against the cliff, calling and squawking. The only other person I can see anywhere along the reserve approaches me, and when I ask, she tells me these birds are mainly razorbills and guillemots – small, black and sleek – and fulmars – plump-chested, compact, grey and white gulls. But I do spot the odd puffin too, identifiable by their clumsy take-off and landing, looking so unlikely in the air, as though they might not make it when they’re coming in to land.
Eventually the wind drives me away from this spot and I move along the cliff, using the sturdy wooden walkways, until a crack in the cliff appears, offering a closer-up view, another perspective of the birds I’ve just been watching. I can’t work out how they’re managing to hang on to the tiny lips of chalk where they’re perched, and I pull out my binoculars to look closer. They show me the birds are standing on tiny slivers of jutting chalk, almost embracing the cliff, necks turned into the crags and craters and into each other, eyes closed, like they’re sleeping.
I move along again, the fresh scent of fish rising on the wind now, and wide-winged gannets begin to soar around me, graceful and swift, riding currents of air, arcing their bodies to change direction or slow. Yellow-tinged faces and black-tipped wings cut out starkly in the drizzle and fug. It’s spectacular to watch them. I’m reminded of air shows and stunt motorcyclists – the thrill of near-misses and synchronised movement. I’m slightly regretting my choice of day now, because I’d like to stand and watch these birds for a long time, but the rain is really coming down now and I’m getting soaked, so I have to move on again.
Next time I stop it’s because a collection of gannets have clustered together on the clifftop by the path – maybe only two feet away from me – and are gathering moss and grass in clumps in their beaks. They soar within feet of my head as they land and I stand awhile watching how they interact, splaying tail feathers and squawking, bumping their black and white beaks. It’s beautiful to watch, but I know there’s more to see so I double-back and move off in the other direction, walking towards Flamborough.
Next time I stop it’s to admire the change in view, the curve of the cliffs, the mossy outcrop dotted with the bodies of white birds, the constant movement of them through archways and caves, the undercurrent of bird chatter blending with the waves.
At my final stop I’m rewarded with hundreds of puffins. Their tiny jug-shaped bodies taking off improbably against the force of the wind, wings fluttering madly. They dart to and fro, tiny against the backdrop of cliffs and sea. I know there are miles more to walk if I wanted but I really am soaked through now, my gloves and hat are soggy and sodden, so I decide to call it a night.
As I turn to walk away, the sound of bird-chatter disappears but I hear one last call, like a derisive laugh, as I’m heading towards my car to get dry and warm. I think about these thousands of birds out here, overnight, every night, nestled into the cliffs against the wind and the raging sea. It reminds me of something I heard Richard Maybey say on Radio 4 a couple of weeks ago about birds: “They face the trials of life with huge dignity. What I sometimes actually think of as grace. The quality of a life lived well under pressure. Lived beautifully under pressure. Birds have that.”
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When I’m home and dry and having a cup of tea, I pore over my beautiful little RSPB booklet on coastal birds again, trying to pick out which ones I’ve seen, and which ones I’ll look out for next time.
I notice that each illustration has a coloured dot beside it, and when I look up the key, my heart drops. A green dot means “Of no current concern”, but an orange dot means “moderately declining populations, and / or moderately contracting localised range, and / or historical population decline but now recovering”.
A red dot means: “Globally threatened, and / or severe decline in UK population, and / or severe contraction of UK range.” I fold out the six glossy pages of intricately-detailed birds, and I count only five green dots. Gannets, guillemots, razorbills and fulmars all have orange dots. Puffins have red.
Over the summer, RSPB Bempton Cliffs is open seven days a week, dawn til dusk, and the visitor centre is open every day from 9.30am until 5pm. The café is open from 10am to 4pm, and there’s a train station in Bempton.