After a lean couple of months The Lone Kayaker has been in dream-world during the last week. Major wildlife encounters have been coming thick and fast.
The gales have abated and even though the weather has not yet sorted itself out into anything you might call spring, it’s a lot better than it has been.
Success has partly been down to giving myself a good kick up the backside and turfing out of bed earlier. When it comes to watching otters and beavers that really is appallingly early. But if you can be bothered to get on the water before the first Blackbird breaks into song, you might just get lucky.
This morning’s excitement was an otter on the river Torridge, although the first eye-boggler was a Roe Deer swimming across the river in front of me. I had only just set off and my brain hadn’t completely fired up so I was slow getting my camera out and only caught the last few seconds…
By the time I saw the otter porpoising towards me an hour later I was completed focussed in on everything that twitched or twittered. Ready to rock n roll.
I tucked in beside the bank and fortunately the otter chose to work it’s way up the far side of the river so I didn’t disturb it at all. As usual it came up with a crunchy snack after every dive, with one fish requiring a bit more serious attention with a visit to the shore:
It carried on upstream without getting a sniff of my presence, which I am always pleased about. It seemed full of the joys of spring, skipping through the water as energetically as any gambolling lamb in a field of green.
Otters are relentlessly hasty and borderline frantic and just can’t resist spending large amounts of time underwater, even when they are just getting from A to B.
They are a genuine aquatic creature.
Beavers are a bit different. If an otter is a twitchy sports car, a beaver is more of a Volvo estate.
They are measured and steady and are quite happy just swimming along at the surface for long distances. As we discovered during an early morning jaunt to the south of the county a few days previously.
Beaver incoming!
If you are ultra-observant you may have noticed the beaver’s head start to bob a little after it has swum past. That is because it was sniffing out a willow tree which it could not pass without stopping off for a bit of a munch. Those leaves are as fresh and crisp as an iceberg lettuce.
So it stopped off for a pit-stop snack as it made its way home to bed…
At the weekend there was a break in the wind, just for one day. In fact for a couple of hours the open sea off South Devon was completely smooth.
Will and Mark loafing a mile offshore.
So that’s where we found ourselves…exactly the right place at the right time. The planning was so good we even organised a pod of a dozen dolphins as well. There was plenty of chuckling and gasps of amazement as the briefly joined us for a bit of a race…
So…Beavers, Otters, Dolphins. All during the last five days. Totally tremendous.
At one of my Lone Kayaker talks recently somebody asked if I ever miss human interaction because I spend so much time immersed in the world of animals.
They politely hinted that I might start to lose the plot.
Not at all…as was demonstrated by my cheerful salutation as I passed a little family resting beside the bike trail while I was pedalling back to retrieve my car this morning…
I’m not a fan of cliches but ‘every cloud has a silver lining’ would sum up the fortunes of the Lone Kayaker’s wildlife adventures over the last few weeks/months.
It’s not entirely appropriate, however. I guess for a cloud to have a silver lining it must have some sort of edge. The entire blanket of grey that has stretched from horizon to horizon recently gives no opportunity for any hope of ever seeing anything but drizzle again. There’s nothing remotely resembling a lining.
If you are a kayaker who wants to get out into the sea for a bit of fun you do not want to see a weather chart like this. Isobars (white lines) in the shape of a dartboard means wind and rain. A dartboard within a dartboard means it’s time to get the tiddlywinks out.
Pressure map 9 April 2024
However…the coastline of Devon and Cornwall is pierced by a whole load of little creeks that offer a bit of shelter from wind and swell. This is where I have been forced to lurk recently.
If you don’t want to become stranded on a bank of sludge or have your enthusiasm sucked dry by paddling against the flow you need to ‘go with the tides’.
That is why the kettle has been clicked on at the appallingly early hour of 0430, so I can be on the water as the first Blackbird song starts to welcome in the dawn. And to catch the current.
Fortunately, for wildlife-spotting, early is good. That is when the most elusive, shy and slithery of UK mammals make their way home after a big night out.
I have struck gold a couple of times recently.
Yesterday, just as it was getting light, a bow-wave was heading straight towards me:
Instant mega excitement…was it a small seal, otter or beaver? Seal no, it was progressing to steadily for that. Otter…also no…they just can’t resist a bit of underwater swimming. And it wasn’t fast and frantic enough for an otter. This was a bit of a steady Eddie. A beaver!
I sat without daring to breathe and it swam right on past…
Although it was clearly on a mission to get to bed it couldn’t resist a bit of a late night/early morning snack. Those newly emerged, crispy-fresh willow leaves just could not be ignored:
Beaver eating Willow Shoots
It was excellent to see that great spatula of a tail sticking out of the water…that’s a first for me. I have been the subject of a ‘tail-slap’ of alarm before, but I’ve never actually seen one before on a wild beaver in UK. They are usually below the water.
The furry rodent and I parted ways when it continued downstream and I continued up. I always like to clock up a few miles on my trips to make the whole thing worthwhile.
However I was feeling a bit pooped after my ultra early start so drove my kayak into a riverside bush for a revitalising cup of coffee.
I am fully aware that sitting in a kayak all alone in a bush in a river at 6.30am is a bit of a weird thing to do…but I love it. Just listen to that dawn chorus! Blackbird and Song Thrush backed up by Wren, Robin, Blue Tit and Woodpigeon.
Then it got a whole lot better.
As I slurped, my eyes popped out on stalks because another beaver was heading directly towards me!!
You can see that this beaver, unfortunately, got wind of me. When a beaver or an otter ‘log’ on the surface they have just sensed that you are there. In fact you can see this one sniffing before it decides to take evasive action.
It wasn’t too spooked, however. I watched it surface a few metres away and carry on downstream, apparently unperturbed.
Yes you can disturb wild animals in a kayak, but because they…the kayaks…are so quiet and slow-moving the disturbance is about as minimal as it can be.
The beaver amazement wasn’t over, because a couple of miles further upstream I passed a load of perfectly snipped and stripped willow shoots floating down the river. Although it looks as though I am attempting to eat my muesli with chopsticks, it was clearly the work of a hungry beaver which had probably just sneaked off to bed before I came round the corner.
So, in a couple of hours, I had seen three beavers and found evidence of more… totally unbelievable.
Just to make your gaping jaw sag even further towards the floor, I saw the same beaver on two successive days at PRECISELY the same time in EXACTLY the same place. They are clearly creatures of routine.
OK it’s actually one minute time difference if you want to be picky.
See the evidence for yourself…this beaver has a smudge of whitish fur on the side of it’s face…
Smudge the Beaver 0700 7/4/24Smudge the Beaver 0701 8/4/24
Although otters are broadly similar in appearance to beavers and live in the same sort of rivery place, a beaver looks like a land mammal taking a swim whereas an otter slithers about in the manner of a full-time aquatic creature such as a dolphin. Or a porpoise!
Otter family porpoising
If you hear the chirp of a young otter you are in for a bit of a treat, because otter pups have got playfulness hotwired into their mojo:
Watch the hurdling effort…not quite up to Sally Gunnell standard maybe, but good effort…
Unfortunately this chirp was more of a cry…
…and although I did then watch mum turn up with a fish I’m not too sure how healthy the pup was. it seemed a bit subdued and fluffed up to me.
In contrast to a decade ago I rarely see large fish such as sea trout and salmon jumping in the big rivers so a major source of food for the otters has declined. I think the same probably applies to eels. Are there enough fish to keep the super-active otters well fed?
It’s ten years since I saw a sight such as this…
Otter plus salmon
I get the impression that otters are robust and feisty as individuals, but delicate as a species.
They are also incredibly shy, unless they happen to want to come over for a bit of a chat…
Henry Kirkwood Filmmaker, The Lone Kayaker, Puffing Pig 2 and a couple of Common Dolphins (pic: Henry Kirkwood Filmmaking)
It came out of nowhere. No sooner had I clicked the ‘publish’ button on my last blog, bemoaning the relentless wind and rain, than a couple of days of calm were forecast. Maybe even with a glimpse of the sun! Maybe even some balmy temperatures that meant I didn’t have to wear two full-length onesies beneath my drysuit! Whaaatt?
The rusted cogs of organisation scrunched into action and Henry…Henry Kirkwood wildlife filmmaker…suggested a rendezvous in South Devon with an ITV film crew duo, Charlotte and Penny. They had been waiting many months for an opportunity such as this to film Henry, the Lone Kayaker and hopefully some dolphins, in action.
This was going to be a tall order. It was, after all, still March so any wind at all would make the whole day feel cold and grey and as hostile as the North Atlantic in…er…March. Also finding dolphins from a kayak is difficult at the best of times and trying to locate them close enough to the shore to be within range of a TV camera is quite a challenge…let alone be with them on the same screenshot. Over half the time they are not in a sociable mood they are gone with the flick of a tail.
However I was sure that Henry and I were going to have a great day out in the open sea in Puffing Pig 2, my inflatable double kayak. The coastal scenery around Torbay is excellent and we were laden down with coffee, sandwiches and naughty-but-nice snacks.
It’s the icing on the cake, the dolphins, that were the potential sticking point. Cakes are great but not so great as when they are covered in icing.
Little did I know the icing was going to be caked on as thick as the Greenland ice cap.
Here we are heading out with the eye of the TV camera on our backs… Nice footage, Becky.
The sea was, as forecast, flat calm. Maybe even flatter than that. We sliced through the velvet surface in convoy with Dave in his single kayak, and were soon loitering off the headland straining our eyes on the lookout for for fins. The swirling waters of the promontory are a focus for fish and a focus for fish eaters. There’s always a few porpoises around if nothing else.
Dave, sensing that it was all about to kick off
Charlotte and Penny appeared with camera on the cliff edge, and Becky, also on land scanned the sea with with binoculars. If anything broke the surface, someone was going to see it.
But nothing did. There was worryingly little seabird activity…no Gannets within sight and no circling gulls…not a good sign.
Henry and I did a few scenic passes for the camera and after an hour Charlotte called on the two-way radio that they were going to walk back to the harbour to get on a boat to film us from the water.
Her threatened departure seemed to ignite the fuse and the action suddenly kicked off. Dave, who was two hundred yards away, called on the other radio that he had seen a porpoise in front of him. I looked in his direction and caught a glimpse of a dark back and large swept-back fin.
Hold your horses…that’s not a porpoise! But what on earth is it? Not right for a dolphin. Too small for a whale, surely. But it had a whale shape. Pulse starts to race and I blew a few fuses in my synapses.
It surfaces again quite a long way away and…OMG…it sure looks like a small whale!
Absolute chaos ensues…Dave on one radio, Charlotte on the other, Becky ringing on the phone because she has seen the same creature from the clifftop.
Becky, plus a passer by, on her clifftop perch
It stayed down for several minutes…very typical of a whale…and then surfaced only a few metres from the rocks. Just a glimpse again. But enough for Henry to get a view of long back and dorsal fin…a juvenile Minke Whale.
As it passed us it surfaced only once more and stayed down for a long time before finally surfacing in front of Charlotte and Penny and then disappearing.
A real slinky Minke! Unfortunately we had no chance to take a photo…but what a complete thrill. A whale from a kayak is a special encounter, a whale from a kayak in Devon is even better…because they don’t often venture this far east.
As we were looking for the whale we could hear a squeaky blow of a dolphin behind us. Fortunately it and half-a-dozen mates were still loitering around when the whale ‘action’ had ended.
So we focussed our attention to this little gang of juvenile dolphins and they very obligingly came over to play. As Henry operated various cameras and drones in the front seat I stoked up a head of steam and piled on the paddling to encourage the dolphins to bow-ride. This is not an easy task as Puffing Pig 2 is a beamy kayak and goes best with both paddlers paddling.
Here’s Henry video from the front seat…as close as you can get to these super-energetic and super-engaging creatures without getting in the water with them…
The dolphins were very obliging and even stayed with us as I pointed the kayak towards the lens on the cliff for maximum photogenicity.
Dolphins, Up very close and personal (pic: Henry Kirkwood Filmmaking)
It was a really extraordinary ten minutes and what makes watching from a kayak so incredibly exciting. Even better the sea was like a lake and there was virtually no tidal current at all, making the whole experience 100% devoid of ‘conditions concern’.
Thanks for this video as well, Hezzer…
Usually when watching big sea creatures there is a surface chop or swell, tidal current or massive paddle back to the shore to worry about. Not today.
Eyeballed by a dolphin, just a couple of feet away (pic: Henry Kirkwood Filmmaking)
The next two hours continued in the same theme…more dolphins and the briefest view of a porpoise which we first diagnosed by hearing its puff.
Becky, still perched on the cliff, then rang to say she could see a dolphin just cruising slowly along at the surface in the manner of a shark. It had been doing it for five minutes and didn’t look like it was going to stop any time soon.
So Henry and I and Dave paddled over to investigate. We were distracted by another small pod so thought the surface-swimming would have stopped by the time we arrived on the scene. It hadn’t.
There was the dolphin cruising along across the velvety surface with just an inch of body and dorsal fin showing. Exactly like a shark, just as Becky had reported.
Surface-swimming dolphin
It seemed perfectly healthy, diving for a few seconds before returning to the surface. I have seen porpoises ‘logging’ at the surface in smooth sea conditions, but never a dolphin. Not for more than a few seconds anyway. Perhaps, like the rest of us, it was simply enjoying the warmth of the sun on its back. For the first time in many months.
It was still going strong when the film crew arrived in their hired boat…Kelly’s Hero skippered by Dave…allowing them to get some more fantastic dolphin footage.
As we were sitting in our kayak relaying our experiences ‘to camera’, Henry in a rather more calm and professional manner than me because my neurones were still fizzing and popping with the whale sighting, another local legend came along in his wildlife-spotting RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat). Rob Hughes of Devon Sea Safari, taking his boat ‘Whistler’ out for a pre-season spin before the season taking customers out kicks off in a couple of days.
Incredibly, he had just been watching the same whale which was now further out to sea and on it’s way south. Better still, he had got some decent photos of the very elusive creature that spent very long periods under the surface.
Thanks for the pics, Rob..
THE juvenile Minke Whale…first of the season. First of many, Hopefully. (pic: Rob Hughes, Devon Sea SafariTorbay Minke (pic: Rob Hughes, Devon Sea Safari)
It was an extraordinary day full of memorable ‘firsts’, with surface-swimming dolphins and Henry and Dave’s first UK kayak-seen whale. An entire day of smooth seas and a sniff of warmth and even a glimpse of the sun as well…certainly a first for 2024!
The promised pleasant period of two calm days was reduced to one and-a-half as the next approaching weather front muscled the weather window out of the way earlier than expected. Surprise, surprise.
But I was programmed and ready to go, so had to turf out at 4am the next morning to be on the water at dawn to catch the last few hours of smooth water before the next blow started.
Falmouth bay was my chosen location and it was very much worth the effort of the early start.
I ran into my first pod of dolphins before 7. I glimpsed a line of dark shapes but wrote them off as the wash of the fishing boat that had just surged past. I wasn’t going to be THAT lucky. I had only been paddling for half-an-hour.
Wrong…because a dolphin then leapt right out of the water.
Of course the acrobatic one was a juvenile and the whole pod then came over to say hello:
Over the next five hours I completed a big offshore circuit of Falmouth Bay, visiting the area of the underwater reef known as the ‘Old Wall’ where I encountered another pod of dolphins and heard, but did not see, a porpoise. These dolphins were all adults so behaved in a very much more sensible way than the rowdy youngsters I had just encountered.
In then took a swing around the monster oil tanker moored in the bay.
En route I ran into a feeding frenzy of screaming gulls who were feasting on a baitball of pilchards which were being herded to the surface by another pod of a bout twenty dolphins.
It was quite a melee:
Falmouth Common Dolphin (mini) feeding frenzy
After my slingshot around the tanker I saw a fourth dolphin pod pass in the distance…bringing the total for the day to about 65…probably a lot more than that.
Wow…a seriously action-packed couple of days. I need a Creme Egg.
Common Dolphin Trio. (pic: Henry Kirkwood Filmmaking)
It is easier to do that thing with the camel, the needle and the eye than find a few hours of calm sea for wildlife-spotting-from-the-kayak over the last few months.
Even when the wind does briefly abate, there is enough residual swell from the last storm to make the kayak bounce around so much it could dislodge your fillings.
It’s complete and utter pants.
It’s not that a lumpy sea is particularly dangerous…in fact for many sea kayakers it is their preferred conditions…it just doesn’t suit my particular branch of the sport. I use a sit-on-top kayak with all my gear, including camera, stowed in dry bags on the deck.
Because I am always in a desperate rush to get on the water and these bags might not be sealed as securely as they should, I try to avoid too many waves sloshing over the deck. Water does have a habit of sneaking into the the most unexpected and unwelcome of places, as I found out in a dramatic and unpleasant manner a month ago.
I had clambered in to my drysuit in record time and everything seemed good to go…until I couldn’t locate my phone. I eventually found it in a zipped pocket of my gilet beneath my securely fastened drysuit. It was completely inaccessible should I need it in a hurry if the unthinkable happened…like somebody ringing me up.
The only way to extricate it without the enormous effort of taking off all my waterproof gear was to writhe an arm in through my relief zip and reach up to the zipped pocket. It was a manoeuvre of such contortion it would have got an approving nod from Houdini.
Camera rescued and returned to its usual pocket in my lifejacket…time to set off. Fast, to make up for lost time.
There was just one rogue swell to tackle as I was paddling out from the beach. It’s weird how the biggest wave of the day always happens to roll up just as I paddle out.
Whooosh! I am completely doused as the wave crashes over the deck, but all seems to be well. Half-a-second later all is definitely not all well. A gallon of freezing cold English Channel is sloshing around my rear end inside my suit, having gained unhindered entry via a gaping relief zip which I had forgotten to do up.
Idiot! My planned four hour trip around the bay will now be one of misery. Four hours of wet and cold underpants (if that is what they are still called) has the same effect on body temperature as an afternoon spent in a meat chiller. I have personal experience of this but I won’t explain as it’s a long story. Actually it’s quite short, but boring, unless you are in to the study of bacterial contamination of topside of beef.
Anyway, as expected, I was chilled to the marrow by the end of the trip.
So, where were we? Ah yes, calm spells have been few and far between. Even more irritatingly, the brief ridges of high pressure which pass over fleetingly have all happened during the night, so by dawn the wind is increasing again.
A couple of days ago I woke up early and as I was lying in bed slurping a cup of tea I watched the stars, and a couple of planets, being snuffed out by a curtain of cloud approaching from the west. The next storm was on the way.
The winds were forecast to stay light for only an hour or two after sunrise.
Long enough!…it was time to get one over on the weather!
I leaped out of bed and the rest of the tea went down the hatch like floodwater down a storm drain and I was off to the south coast at Torbay and heading out to sea. I hope the speed camera on the A30 wasn’t working.
There were just a couple of Gannets roving about and I watched them intently. If one circled, that’s where I was going. More often than not a circling Gannet indicates a feeding porpoise or a dolphin below.
Two Gannets circled and one dived so I ‘powered’ over to have a look…and was joined by a dozen juvenile dolphins…
Superb…even better, the sea was still smooth. But it didn’t last long as the first gusts soon arrived.
Will and Sam appeared in the distance and I did my best to lure the dolphins over to them with a bit of a burst of speed. This was only semi-successful (ie mainly unsuccessful) but they did get to enjoy a bit of dolphin action when they appeared upon the scene.
Will and Sam
The increase in wave-chop made us head back towards the coast…giving us the chance to do a bit of kayak speliology. Caving is not really my thing but I am happy to have my arm twisted if it is in aid of a bit of a chuckle…
So the ultra-early start to beat the weather paid off:
Hopefully it won’t be pants…if that is what they are stilled called…for much longer.
Plymouth Sound provides a decent kayak adventure when the open sea remains lumpy and hostile. It is a vast wide-mouthed inlet protected by land on three sides and the extraordinary breakwater, a MILE long, on the fourth.
It has the feel of the open ocean.
The focus of my attention as I set out from a sheltered cove on the western side of the sound was the birds that hang out there. It is rarely frequented by ornithologically-orientated kayakers because it lies a mile from the nearest point of land and to get there requires a crossing of the main shipping lane into Plymouth plus a swirly tidal current. So it deters the casual paddler.
The Breakwater. West End
I was very nearly deterred myself. The sea surface was stippled with slappy wavelets caused by wind blowing against tide and the whole scene was a bit grey and cold. However if the weather forecast did what it said on the tin the winds were going to fall light and I might even enjoy a bit of sun in an hour or two.
Purple Sandpipers were my target. They are a bit of an enigma. They are small, dark-coloured and not particularly charismatic. They generate virtually no interest whatsoever in those who are not invested in ornithology…in fact they are usually overlooked because they are incredibly well-camouflaged and spend much of their time fast asleep.
Purple Sandpiper
It is a completely different story for birdwatchers who get as excited about seeing them as non-birdwatchers don’t.
To those that know a thing or two about feathers, they are not a boring little brown job… they are a magical little gem from a far-away land of ice and mountains and are full of wonder and mystery.
They have ALWAYS been a favourite of the Lone Kayaker, so my eyes came out on stalks when I rounded the wall of an old sea defence on the breakwater to be confronted by scores of these charming little birds. They were gently snoozing and quietly chatting amongst themselves with their querulous twitter.
A quartet of ‘Purps’
I was aware that numbers around the coast of Devon and Cornwall were steadily declining as global warming encourages them to ‘short-stop’ on their migration south in autumn.
So I was staggered to see so many gathered in one place.
I counted and recounted and each time the total came to seventy. Many more than the usual total Devon count of 40-50 so surely a record number.
Whatever the stats, it was a sight to behold, and hear. Here they are, all 70 of them.
The real attraction of the little birds is their extraordinary tameness. In a kayak you can drift up to a few feet of them and they won’t even wake up. As soon as they open an eye I back off because they definitely need their rest in such a challenging environment.
Delving into the ecology of these endearing little birds makes them even more remarkable. They nest around the globe on the edge of the Arctic Tundra or on the edge of the snowline in sub-Arctic mountain ranges.
In autumn they fly south to spend the winter along the coast as far south as Northern Spain. Ringing has shown they are remarkably faithful to their wintering sites, returning to exactly the same wave-pounded location year after year.
Plump and personable…that’s the Purple Sandpiper.
As I was supping a cup of coffee watching the ‘action’ I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the top of the concrete breakwater seemed to be moving as though alive. It was!
Hundreds and hundreds of cryptically-camouflaged Dunlin were packed in so tightly that I couldn’t see the concrete at all.
Whole Lotta Dunlin
Like the Sandpipers, they too were nearly all fast asleep. It was exactly high tide so the expanses of mud where the Dunlin probe in the nearby creeks of the Rivers Tamar and Plym, were covered with water. The breakwater provides a safe and undisturbed spot for a nap.
Dunlin Mugshot
Like Purple Sandpipers, Dunlin are not ‘lookers’ but are extraordinarily tame. At least these ones were. Maybe it’s because virtually all creatures in the ‘offshore’ environment treat a kayak…and the weird occupant within…as one of the gang.
Sorry to wake you up
How many Dunlin were in the flock that was like a living blanket the size of a tennis court? I took a loose punt at 300 but scrutinising the videos I think it is closer to 600.
At one stage when the breakwater was topped by a particularly meaty swell, they all took flight, put on a terrific aerobatic display to match any Starling murmuration, and then settled down again a stone’s throw from their previous place of peace and quiet.
For a lifelong birder like me it was quite an experience. There was nobody else in sight…just a couple lobster boats and a few of large pieces of naval hardware. I was sitting in a wild-feeling location with the sound of splishy-splashy wavelets all around and thumping great booming waves just the other side of the wall, surrounded on three sides in an artificial inlet by an army of roosting birds which were all quietly chattering away to each other. Just a few feet away.
Tremendous.
I clawed myself away to notch up a few miles by taking a slingshot around Drake’s Island to make the trip even more worthwhile.
The wind did indeed drop to nothing and the sun did indeed come out. It was a pleasure to bump into fellow paddler Nigel Hingston, from the Port of Plymouth Canoe Club, en route to the Island. We seemed to be peas out of the same pod.
Plymouth Hoe was abuzz with activity as usual. Loads of swimmers and the cross-channel ferry Armorique preparing for departure to Roscoff.
Heavy stuff on the Hoe
If you’ve never had the pleasure of a circuit of Drake’s Island enjoy this whistlestop tour…
I did a bit of dibbling about Purple Sandpipers on the breakwater when I got home. Was 70 a Devon Record?
No. A month ago another visitor to Plymouth Breakwater counted 71!
Part of the mystery of the sea is that the abundance of different species varies enormously from year to year.
It’s always been that way. Even in the heyday of pilchard fishing some years the fish didn’t turn up at all. In others the fish were so thick you could walk on water.
Last year was a bumper season for Risso’s Dolphins around Cornwall. The Lone Kayaker had the pleasure of observing more in 2023 than in all the previous ten years added together.
Here’s the stats:
Risso’s Dolphins observed from the kayak seat. Cornwall and Devon.
In addition I saw several more pods from the land, and another thirty or so individuals in Western Scotland from the kayak.
So it was definitely the year of the Risso’s.
Risso’s, Sennen Cove
Everything about Risso’s is exotic, not least their name. It is entirely appropriate that the surname of amateur French naturalist, Antoine Risso, has stuck. He found a beached dolphin on the Mediterranean coast at Nice in 1811 and submitted his findings to the big cheese zoologist of that era called Georges Cuvier. Cuvier referred to the specimen as the ‘dauphin de Risso’ and that’s more or less how it has stayed.
It is so much more suitable for this extraordinary-looking creature than the alternative names of Grey Dolphin…yawn, boring!…or Grampus…slightly better but not as fitting as Risso’s.
‘Grampus’ could lead to a spot of identity confusion as it is also one of the local names for the mighty Orca aka Great Killer Whale.
Strangely, or perhaps not strangely considering they sometimes share a name, Risso’s are often mistaken for Orcas.
Risso’s spiky dorsal fin
They have a particularly tall and spiky dorsal fin which always produces an ‘OMG’ reaction when first observed. It’s a big fin on a big dolphin which understandably causes confusion amongst those who are not familiar.
At nearly two feet tall, the Risso’s fin is even bigger than that of the local whales, the Minkes and the Humpbacks.
Trio of Risso’s spikes
Everything about Risso’s is remarkable. Not least their bulk. They are big and beefy as can be seen by the impressive ‘wooobooomph’ they create when they start to throw themselves around.
They weigh up to half-a-ton and are very nearly as long as my kayak. I felt distinctly small and insignificant as an impressively massive, almost completely white, individual approached me last year. A really extraordinary encounter.
Risso’s approaching! (pic, Henry Kirkwood)
I was aware that Risso’s are notoriously shy so I was sitting absolutely still to avoid spooking it. Even so, it took evasive action and swerved to the side when it sensed my presence.
If they take fright at a small, silent and stationary kayak it is perhaps no wonder that very little is known about the biology of Risso’s in the wild. They actively avoid all boats and if there are too many craft in the area they will just clear off, as I witnessed last year near Penzance.
Having said all that, they very occasionally bolden up and do a bit of bow-riding, although with me yet, unfortunately.
However I was once ‘threatened’ by a pair of large white Risso’s that squared up in front of me like a couple of living torpedos and were clearly discussing what course of action to take.
Needless to say they just swam past silently. Perhaps, in retrospect, they were just having a powernap.
The astonishing facts continue…Risso’s are a worldwide species that prefer to inhabit deep waters on the edge of the continental shelf where their main prey, octopus and squid, lurk.
They occasional nudge inshore to feast on a tasty change to the menu, cuttlefish, when they (the cuttlefish) move into shallower water around the fringe of Cornwall and Devon to breed in early summer.
So when I come across one of these, a cuttlefish with all the squishy bits chewed off…
Half-chewed cuttlefish
I know that not very far away there will be a pod of these…
Fabulous Risso’s
Last year my eyes came out on stalks when, during a day of zero other significant wildlife sightings near Fowey, I saw a series of huge splashes approaching from the horizon. I had absolutely no idea what was going on until I saw the chunky outline of a Risso’s in the middle of a cloud of spray.
Unfortunately the powering pod of 8-10 veered away before they came close and I watched in amazement as the splashes sped past at top speed. It was only when I reviewed the few and blurry photos I managed to take that I noticed some small calves accompanying the adults.
It was astonishing that these little nippers managed to keep up with the blistering pace. And why on earth were they going so fast? They certainly weren’t being chased by a predator so I suspect it was a training exercise for the youngsters.
Mother and Calf Risso’s…legging it
And there’s more phenomenal features of remarkable Rissos’:
The mermaid tail:
The Striated Skin…caused by scrapping with chums/mates, and that Happy Smile:
Risso’s, Penzance
The excellent Risso’s season was topped off by a unique sighting made by wildlife filmmaker son Henry in June. It was a rare flat calm day so I had spent all day out on the water and Henry had spent all day watching from land.
We had watched a pod of Risso’s at close range and seen Common Dolphins and a Minke Whale so as far as I was concerned it was a job well done and it was back to the Air BNB to celebrate a thrilling day with a beer.
Henry, however, stuck it out down on the shore until the sun went down.
Henry Kirkwood. Wildlife Filmmaker.
Sacrificing a significant volume of blood to half a trillion midges paid off with a sighting that we think is a UK first.
A newborn Risso’s calf. All floppy and rubbery and almost certainly only a few hours old.
Risso’s newborn calf
So it’s been a Risso’s year that will be hard to match in 2024…but yer never know…
ps. Being an octopus in UK is not as cushy and squishy as you might imagine.
It’s been a tough start to the year in the wildlife-spotting-from-the-kayak department. The weather in 2024 has kicked off in the same manner that 2023 concluded…non-stop wind and rain.
As usual the Lone Kayaker has set himself some really ludicrous targets for the year. Top of the list is to see a total of one thousand cetaceans, from the kayak seat, in Devon and Cornwall.
This sort of idea fits very well with my punk ethos. In fact the whole Lone Kayaker thing does. Like punk it is original, highly likely not to succeed, burns off a bit of energy and is a lot of fun. So it gets a big thumbs up from me.
If it’s all a bit daft that’s even better.
I havn’t quite managed that milestone figure of a thousand cetaceans in a year yet, as you can see from this high-tech bar chart that I created using AI and some old felt tips that were lying around in the corner of the kitchen:
Lone Kayaker Cetacean Stats. Not quite a thousand in a calendar year, but nearly
This year has got off to a stumbling start to say the least. There are plenty of ‘fins’ around the coast at the mo that are feasting on the seasonal abundance of pilchards (aka Cornish Sardines), but the sea conditions have not been at all kayak-friendly.
I have seen a handful of porpoises slinking about and half-a-dozen dolphins. That’s about it…until I had a big surprise a couple of days ago.
A morning of light winds was forecast…the briefest of lulls between two storm systems. A residual choppy swell from the east precluded a visit to my favourite sheltered east-facing hotspots, so I headed west to the huge open estuary of Carrick Roads.
I could then paddle along the shelter of the east shore with an open coast sort of feel even though it is a giant inlet.
As good as it gets at the mo
It’s excellent for seabirds if nothing else. There are always a few Great Northern Divers around, enough to make a paddling day special.
Great Northern Diver. Dripping Magnificence.
When I emerged from my launch creek I was pleased to see that the open sea didn’t look too hostile so headed out to take a look. And far ahead there were the fins! Quite spiky and fast-moving…dolphins for certain.
I approached with caution but the dolphins were up for a bit of sport and I was soon surrounded by a playful mob:
Fantastic. The thrill of being in the thick of a gang of dolphins never seems to wear thin.
However the thrill of bow-riding a very slow-moving craft powered by an old geezer did wear thin on these hyper-energetic Common Dolphins, and they soon sheared away to join up with another scattered group that were clearly feeding.
They were diving for long periods and constantly changing direction.
I just poured a cup of coffee and sat and watched the show.
Noselifting dolphin
They were absolutely fascinating as always. When cruising one of the group repeatedly lifted its head clear of the water when it surfaced. I used to think this was abnormal behaviour. In fact the only Common Dolphin I have ever seen twice, which I nicknamed ‘Noselifter’, behaved in this manner all the time.
They are probably just taking a look around.
Whatever, it makes for a nice pic:
Under the gaze of Pendennis Castle
After an hour of looking I started to get a bit twitchy. If there were 30-40 dolphins here, there might be something even more exciting just out there in the open sea. There wasn’t, but it was worth a couple of hours of investigation. I came across ‘just’ another handful of dolphins.
St Anthony Head Dolphin
Persistence pays off. The more time you spend on the water, the more you will see. That is the only rule, because if you head out with the expectation of seeing any particular type of sea creature you will probably be disappointed.
In fact, weirdly, the more confident you are the more likely you are to fail.
This rule applies to otters as much as it does to dolphins.
Even so, when I am paddling up an estuary I spend the ENTIRE time in complete stealth mode, straining my eyes as far ahead as possible, looking for that unexplained swirl at the surface.
If I don’t see anything a great time was had anyway, because the scenery is always absorbing:
However the other day my persistence really did pay off. I had paddled this stretch of south coast estuary for hundreds of miles since I last saw an otter.
Having paddled upstream with the incoming tide I was on my way back so thought the opportunity had passed. Otters like early mornings and it was now getting late. However I was still looking, looking.
Was that a swirl behind that tree stump close to the shore? I immediately skulked into the reeds on the opposite bank and sat in absolute silence.
Yes! An otter popped up and began swimming upstream towards me. Surprisingly fast, as usual, and surprisingly difficult to see, as usual. And even more slithery than usual.
It then completely disappeared, but I was confident that it hadn’t seen me so I just sat still with camera raised in anticipation. Staring for a glimpse of movement on the opposite bank.
There was not a sound apart from a singing Robin.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a swirl at the surface on my side of the river and a trail of bubbles rapidly approached the front of my kayak.
Here’s what happened next…a whole lotta champing and a whole lot of huffing…
Unquestionably one of my best Cornwall and Devon otter encounters ever. Of the couple of hundred or so I have seen, none has ever approached my kayak as close as this.
The encounter was slightly tainted by the potential disturbance to the otter, but although it was cursing me it was only mildly perturbed. I saw it continuing on up the river after it has finished giving me an earful.
If an otter identifies you as human it will disappear and you will not see it again. (Mmmm…not sure what that says about me)
So although winter paddling around SW England has many challenges, particularly so in this stormy season, it can be very rewarding. The feeling of adventure is enhanced by the almost complete absence of any other recreational water users at this time of year.
These encounters have fired up the enthusiasm for the rest of the year.
We couldn’t resist the lure of a rare calm winter’s day. Hardly any wind and minimal groundswell meant an open coast day with a chance of offshore paddling was on the cards.
Torbay was our destination and dolphins were our target species.
I met up with son Henry in the car park. He was keen to add to his impressive wildlife portfolio in ‘Henry Kirkwood Filmmaking.’
Henry Kirkwood Wildlife Filmmaker
Our usual two-pronged approach, with me on the water and Henry on dry land, was today enhanced by the use of a pair of Christmas walkie-talkies. The desperate panic to answer a mobile with wet fingers without send it spinning into the depths was a thing of the past. Instant and simple communication…yippee.
The only issue was there were no dolphins. I paddled around for four hours up to a mile offshore and there just weren’t any around. Hezzer, with his eyes sharper than any Peregrine, saw a large pod many miles offshore with a few individuals leaping. I wasn’t going all the way out there in my floating steed of the day, my Gumotex Safari inflatable kayak.
No problem…that is the challenge, and fun, of looking for dolphins. They are highly mobile and a no-show is common. It makes it all the more rewarding when they do appear.
Porpoise approaching
However, there is always something to enjoy, and today there were Porpoises. They are resident in the Torbay area and hunt along the current interfaces off the headlands which are conveniently marked by lines of smooth water at the surface. They are extremely unobtrusive and surface without a splash and cruise around singly or in small groups so are very much more difficult to spot than a pod of dolphins.
They are overlooked by most.
Porpoise. Being slinky, as usual
They are a speciality from seeing from the silence of a kayak because you can hear their characteristic puff as they surface, especially the first one after a dive, which is the loudest.
Today one gave me quite a jump as it popped up just a few feet behind me.
Our total for the day was ten or eleven… a couple of groups of three including a calf, and a few singletons.
Pair of porpoises. Being slinky, as usual
It’s always a bit of a pity when cetacean observers report that they had ‘only’ seen porpoises. OK, they are not a showy, splashy sociable or as engaging as dolphins, but their shy aloofness makes them none the less endearing. Nothing ‘only’ about them at all.
They are the Thomas the Tank Engine of the cetacean world. Small and chuffy but with lots of personality.
Out on the sea, there are always seabirds, especially in this area. The headlands of Torbay generate swirling tidal currents which mix up nutrients that attract fish. Kittiwakes and other Gulls dipped to the surface and the occasional Gannet roved overhead.
Guillemot Squadron. Loose Formation.
Most remarkable were the large number of Guillemots, most already sporting a smart breeding plumage, who were crammed together on their breeding ledges. A bit early for that sort of thing, I would have thought.
Guillemot cleared for landing. Undercarriage down.
Every so often the entire lot would pour off the cliffs like a liquid, do a circuit around the bay and then attempt to squeeze back onto their favourite spot like commuters on the underground.
A bit tight for space.
Just getting ready for the forthcoming season, I suppose.
After enjoying the Guillemot show, I couldn’t resist an interlude of high speed kayak-caving…
A handful of Purple Sandpipers were dotted about on the most exposed barnacle-encrusted rocks. They are also very endearing, because they are exceptionally tame. They are overlooked by all but dedicated ornithologists because they are small, cryptically camouflaged and spent a lot of time immobile.
Purple Sandpiper. Plump and Personable.
They are also another eyeball speciality from a kayak. You will only see them if you spend your whole time scrutinising long stretches of coast for long periods of time. Fortunate, because that’s what I do.
The action didn’t stop there. Back in the marina I was befriended by an extremely playful seal pup who started his performance by pulling at my kayak fin with his teeth and bumping the bottom. He then followed very closely, swimming upside down, before being distracted by a couple of absurdly fluffy dogs on the breakwater.
Impish seal pup take 1Impish seal pup take 2
After losing interest in all things human and canine, it locked on to a Garfish and chased it with an exasperating turn of speed. The unfortunate fish repeatedly leapt clear of the surface while the bow wave from the seal was surging just behind.
It wasn’t quite a meteorological blizzard as I drove south towards the River Tamar a couple of days ago, but it wasn’t far off. The air temperature was -3C and the flurry of snow was making road conditions interesting.
My resolve to go for paddling adventure was wavering. Not just because it was chuffing cold, but also my usual car with the kayak roof-rack was undergoing major surgery so I was forced to use plan B…my Gumotex inflatable kayak called ‘Puffing Pig’ which was neatly curled up in the back of my daughter’s Fiesta.
However, Puffing Pig seemed keen for an outing to wash off the layer of accumulated dust so I felt obliged to carry on.
The scene at my put-in point was as welcoming as I could have hoped. The water at the estuary was glass-flat, the sky was blue and I could just about feel a therm of warmth from the recently risen sun.
Even so, a dog-walker looked long and hard at me as if I was completely bonkers as I set off. A slight shake of the head. Even the dog did a double-take.
I soon warmed up as I paddled upstream.
Far ahead I could see a long line of white in mid river, like a string of pearls.
Avocets! And a whole load of them!
Avocets chilling
Wow, how fantastic. Everything about Avocets is remarkable. They are impossibly elegant and have long legs that look prone to snap, with beaks which are even more delicate.
Needle thin beak
I remember my first view of one in Dorset on a similarly freezing day when I was eleven. It was massive excitement and was the sighting that sealed my lifelong interest in all things ornithological. Even though I was as cold as a Calippo.
They were a rare species in the UK in the early seventies because they had been absent as a breeding bird for a century. The Victorians loved nothing more than a stuffed Avocet on the mantlepiece in the sitting room, which didn’t help.
Thanks to habitat restoration and protection offered by reserves since the war the Avocets are breeding again in significant numbers and in winter their numbers are swelled by birds from the continent.
Fortunately for Avocet fans like the Lone Kayaker, they seem to enjoy life in the estuaries of southwest England during the dark months.
Even so, I was surprised to see so many in the floating raft in front of me…well over a hundred.
In addition there was a posse of about twenty taking it easy on the nearby shore in the company of a chunky looking shelduck.
Shelduck and Avocets
The sub-zero temperatures were taking their toll on my toes so I put in a bit of ooomph and paddled further upriver.
Three species of raptor flew past in quick succession…a Buzzard and a Peregrine which I might have been expected. And a Marsh Harrier which I might not. This was the first I have ever seen beside the Tamar.
Marsh Harrier
By coincidence they, like the Avocets, have benefitted from recent protection and habitat restoration. They are ground nesters so prone to disturbance/persecution/predation. This one was just doing a bit of winter wandering, presumably.
It was lovely to see a handful of Redshank on the shore. On a cloudy day they are borderline drab. When the sun comes out, however, the light illuminates their orange legs like glow-sticks.
Redshank. and bored Egret
On the way back the Avocets were spooked by a low pass by the Peregrine and performed a couple of flypasts with me in the prime ringside seat.
Snowstorm of Avocets
When the danger was past, they dropped in over my head to resume their effort to complete forty winks before the tide dropped enough to expose the expanse of mud wherein lurked their lunch.
But what was going on? There was a single leg dangling from every bird as they dropped in. Undercarriage failure or an avian airbrake?
Whichever, their touchdown proceeded without a hitch and they soon settled down, chattering with quiet little chuckles.
We’re out of the starting blocks! Just when I was beginning giving up hope of a day without the howl of the wind and the drench of the rain, my faith in the great British weather has been restored.
Sunday was the perfect crisp winter’s day, very memorable for a multitude of reasons. If the glace cherry on top of the Belgian bun was the little pod of dolphins, the icing was my eminent paddling companion.
It was Mike Conroy, who circumnavigated Ireland last year…in appalling weather…and is quite happy to clock up sixty plus miles in a day. His quicksilver speed makes me wonder if he has a secret propeller sneaked somewhere beneath the waterline and makes me feel as though I am paddling through a sea of Evo-stik.
Mike and St. Mawes
As we exited our little launch creek, I was very pleased to sea the open sea looking kayak-friendly. No whitecaps and minimal swell.
Even so, having nosed around Black Rock at the mouth of Carrick Roads, we decided to head for the super-smooth water in the direction of Truro.
Black Rock
I was intent on seeing something with a fin attached and a smooth surface makes this an awful lot easier. An observation platform that is bouncing around doesn’t make for good wildlife spotting.
The many Great Northern Divers dotted about made a good start. They are really impressive diving ducks with a great spear of a beak, They spend the winter here after migrating from Iceland.
St. Anthony
The Cormorants and Shags on the rocks at St. Anthony Head were just starting to get into the swing of the impending breeding season.
A few Shags were sporting their new punky-style quiffs…
Shags
While a Cormorant was showing off his new white-flecked headgear. It was still getting over the excesses of Christmas and New Year though, judging by his cavernous yawn.
Cormorant
The further up the ‘roads’ we paddled, the smoother the surface became. I had seen half-a-dozen porpoises here a few days ago during the briefest lull in the wind, but not the rain, so when a couple of fins sliced the surface ahead I suspected porpoise.
Wrong. When they broke the surface again with a little bit of a splash they were clearly dolphins.
Common Dolphins, Carrick Roads
It turned out to be a little pod of six or seven. They were busy feeding…surfacing very unobtrusively four or five times then disappearing for a minute or two.
For Common dolphins, which are hot-wired to be energetic, they were very quiet and slinky, although the couple of youngsters which surfaced right beside their mums just couldn’t resist the occasional surge or tail-slap.
Junior trying to contain exuberanceMike and a moderately close encounter
The dolphins cruised slowly south. We headed north with lunch very much top of the agenda. A fine location for a feast is the cornerstone to the perfect kayaking day out.
Mike absolutely nailed it. He located a sun-drenched mini-beach, completely out of the wind, overlooked by the grandeur of Trelissick House.
Trelissick
We weren’t alone. Shanks, both Red and Green, shared our undisturbed little corner.
Greenshank. I love GreenshankRedshank. I love Redshank.
Lunch was a sumptuous sandwich with a tinge of tastelessness. No complaints about the giant triangle of Toblerone for afters, though.
The trip back was a dream. Light following wind and gentle tidal assistance.
17.4 miles on the clock. Not bad for a winter paddle for me.
I got the impression that Mike could have done the whole thing again. And possibly again after that.
The Lone Kayaker 