Fowey – The Lone Kayaker

Dolphins Again…At Last!

December 3, 2023December 4, 2023 by rupertkirkwood, posted in common dolphin, Fowey, Guillemot, Harbour Porpoise, porpoise, Razorbill, Torbay

November has provided lean pickings for the Lone Kayaker.

My camera has made very few excursions from the cosiness of its dry-bag.

The weather hasn’t helped. Most of my paddling trips have been along the rivers and up the estuaries to provide a bit of protection from the wind. I’ve seen a few Kingfishers, a handful of seals and several otters which is always a thrill.

Most have been fleeting glimpses although during the one prolonged view of a otter fishing in the River Torridge my camera decided to go on strike.

Out along the coast I have encountered the occasional porpoise and witnessed a tremendous dogfight between a pair of peregrines and a woodpigeon. Clouds of feathers flew everywhere but amazingly the woodpigeon made a successful escape into a chink in the cliffs.

All of which I failed to capture on film.

The big kick up the pants came a couple of days ago.

Fantastic Fowey

A day which promised blue skies and oily calm seas. BIG excitement.

I didn’t decide my launch location until I was in the car heading for the south Cornwall coast. It had to be Fowey…such an easy kayak put-in and only a mile paddle to the open sea. There are no real tidal currents to worry about so I could spend as much time as I liked far from the shore in about as relaxed a manner as possible.

As I emerged from the mouth of the estuary I checked in with the National Coastwatch Observers at Polruan and paddled directly offshore.

It was all worryingly quiet. No Gannets, very few gulls and no sound of any splashes or puffs. I kept stopping but all I could hear was deafening silence.

Until I reached about four miles offshore, that is.

That’s where things suddenly started to hot up. I paddled over to investigate a little flurry of Kittiwakes that were circling around a fizzing patch of water.

It was a compact baitball of small fish which looks like Pilchards (aka Cornich Sardines).

Also in attendance were a large numbers of auks that were scattered about, croaking in a strangely primeval manner.

They were mainly Razorbills…

Razorbill, looking smart in winter plumage

With a handful of Guillemots thrown in for good measure, and comparison…

I was intrigued by a very small, pale floaty bird which I thought may have been a Phalarope, but it turned out to be a Little Gull. I’ve only seen two or three of these before from the kayak seat…

A short distance further out the BIG action started to kick off.

The silence was torn up by an explosion of water behind me which I knew must have been a tuna. I swung round just in time to see an enormous fish, far bigger than a dolphin, jump clear of the water.

In keeping with my photographic failures of the last month, I spectacularly missed the opportunity for the big pic and just managed to snap the spiky fin as the fish disappeared. It didn’t reappear, needless to say.

I was relieved when I heard a small posse of Common Dolphins approaching, with their characteristic polite and delicate splashing…in great contrast to the explosive chaos of the Tuna.

Even better, they were swimming towards me so all I had to do was wait.

As usual the little group came over to investigate the weirdo in the mould-covered kayak and then seemed to lose interest and moved on.

But then they seemed to have a change of heart and came back to the side of my kayak, as though they had decide that I might be an item of interest after all.

In the manner of puppies waiting for the ball to be thrown, they seemed to be egging me on. So I stoked up the boilers and cranked up the speed.

The dolphins responded as I had hoped and somehow got some enjoyment out of my pathetic pressure wave. They seemed to be gliding along beside me without twitching a muscle.

I spent a prolonged period staring eye to eye with one adult dolphin as it cruised effortlessly just below the silky smooth surface. As it tilted on its side to get a better look I tried to convey a similarly relaxed expression even though I was twanging every fibre of my being in paddling fast enough to keep their attention.

Dolphins are far to clever to be fooled, however. They took pity on me, probably when they saw the veins on my temples starting to bulge, and dashed off to look for a fishy snack.

A memorable minute of dolphin magic…

Yesterday the mini-dolphin bonanza continued, this time off the South Devon coast in Torbay. The see was bursting with little silver fish. Kittiwakes were circling everywhere with Guillemots, Razorbills, Gannets and a few Divers joining in the feast.

Where there are feeding seabirds, there are usually porpoises and/or dolphins. On this occasion it was both!

Juvenile Dolphins attacking small shoal of baitfish in mouth of Torbay

32,011 Miles Paddled. The Locations.

November 16, 2023 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Anatarctica, Boscastle Caves, Calstock, Fowey, Grey Seal, St. Michael's Mount

Whilst stuck indoors as the storms roll in I’ve been doing some mathematics. Adding up, to be precise.

I unearthed all my diaries from the last nineteen years from the top cupboard, where they were all jumbled up with my old trainspotting loco log books (one autographed by Captain Sensible) and fifty year’s worth of notepads containing of wildlife records.

I know what you are thinking and yes, the nerd word has never been far away.

The diaries contain details of all my 3369 kayaking days since 2005. All I had to do was add them together. Simple, seemingly, but you’d be surprised how much can go wrong when you have to press the + button 3368 times.

By the time I had finished, there were quite a few less teabags remaining in the pot and all that was left in the hobnob tin was crumbs.

The screen on the calculator showed 32,011.4 miles. That’s the equivalent of paddling around the planet one and a third times.

I’m really not sure whether this is something to shout about or something that should have stayed in the fusty cupboard. Whatever, I have enjoyed every minute of the 10,000+ hours in the kayak seat over the last two decades, and still do. At least with that amount of hours notched up, I should theoretically know what I am going on about.

I have had great pleasure in dipping my paddle into the waters of all seven continents, although Africa was in 1989 and New Zealand was in 2003, before I took up kayak-touring in earnest.

The 32011 total breaks down as follows…

27,158 miles in Devon and Cornwall

It took me ten years to piece together the entirety of the Southwest Coast from Poole to Minehead, all 1154 miles of it. It’s a lot more than the walking route if you go up every creek as far as you can get at high tide, out around all the islands and into every cave…

I now cherry pick whichever location offers the promise of calm conditions and most exciting wildlife sightings. This includes 21 trips out to Eddystone, one Scilly crossing and two day trips to Lundy from Hartland.

I find these offshore trips are the most thrilling because they offer the chance of a really extraordinary sighting.. However the sea is hardly ever flat enough to venture far out so much of the time I spend cowering up a creek or paddling the rivers. Lucky there are so many around Devon and Cornwall…and that they are so beautiful!

2,218 miles in Scotland

438 down the Rivers Spey, Tweed, Dee and Tay and along the Caledonian Canal. 1780 off the West coast.

The River trips were multi-day camping expeditions with my brothers and chums between 2006 and 2010. Top entertainment and a lorra lorra laughs.

The west coast and Western Isles has been largely solo kayaking, including a 500-mile camping expedition.

Spot the Lone Kayaker. (pic: Henry Kirkwood)

My knuckles were whitest during a solo circumnavigation of St. Kilda. Only ten miles but I felt very small and vulnerable beneath the huge cliffs of the ‘dark side’, far from any phone or radio reception. The Great Skuas were licking their lips.

1,173 miles in Spain

All along the Mediterranean coast within sight of, and including, Gibraltar. Weather a bit more reliable than UK but having said that the extreme western Med does catch a bit of a stiff easterly. Nice ‘n sunny, though!

548 miles along the Thames

I love the Thames. Probably because I was brought up near Reading only a few miles from the sleepy, willowy river and spent a large amount of time dibbling about in the shallows when I was a wee tot. In those dreamy days when it always seemed to be sunny, Water Voles were everywhere and Snipe drummed over all the marshy bits. The latter two are gone…fortunately the sun hasn’t.

I have enormously enjoyed paddling the length of Old Father Thames twice. Actually the second time wasn’t so much fun as it was during the Devizes to Westminster canoe race and I was so exhausted by the end I could lift a mini Magnum to my mouth.

312 miles in Wales

The distance is split equally between the west coast (looking for Bottlenose Dolphins) and the Rivers Wye and Severn. The Wye in May is hard to beat. Clouds of Mayfly are pursued by all manner of little fluffy ducklings/goslings/cygnets and the riverside bushes are a cacophony of birdsong.

Oh…and a canal or two…

Yikes! Vertiginous Pontcysyllite Aqueduct

194 miles in Canada

Vancouver Island, to be precise, in August and September this year. Orcas and Humpbacks were our target species, but we were happy with all the other stuff we observed in and beside the super-deep, super-swirly and super-fertile water. Dolphins, sea-lions, seals, bears, otters, eagles and some legendary little birds such as Marbled Murrelets.

52 miles in Greenland

A wildlife watching expedition with eldest son Henry in 2016.

Unfortunately it was almost devoid of wildlife but the disappointment was offset by the incessant cracking and booming of icebergs, some the size of cruise liners, which were an endless source of amazement.

43.4 miles in Antarctica

Extraordinary. The scale of the frozen continent is staggering. Icebergs, glaciers and bare rock as far as the eye can see, and then this or something similar repeated another 500 times beyond this until you get to the other side. We didn’t go to the other side, we very much loitered.

Bron and Pete looking extremely epic in the cold continent.

We launched our kayaks from the back of the expedition ship. Not entirely in keeping with my ‘paddle-out-from-the-shore’ ethos, but there is no other way we could have had such unbelievable wildlife encounters, so it was entirely worth it.

Greg Mortimer, the mother ship, nestled beneath Humpie fluke

I still can’t work out why we didn’t get really cold, as both the sea and air hovered about freezing point.

43.2 miles in Thailand

The other end of the temperature scale to the Antarctic…it was blisteringly hot and sweaty the whole time. Our biggest kayak adventure was a circumnavigation of Ko Phaluai island.

There were no maps and no phone signal so we had no idea how far it was around when we set off. We just kept on paddling, and arrived back at our destination nine hours later. Worried-looking locals were peering anxiously in the direction we had set off in anticipation of our return, and fell off their seats when we rolled in from the other way.

A few days in Khao Sok lake paddling beneath the gigantic limestone pillars was another highlight.

38 miles in Mexico

A five-day guided kayak trip in the Sea of Cortez should have been a wildlife spectacular under a baking sun. It wasn’t. It was cool and windy and the sea was too choppy to see any fins.

Unprecedented weather, apparently. Just our blooming luck.

24 Miles in France

Family Fun down the Ardeche Gorge

12 miles in USA

This was a bonus. A couple of kayak trips off the coast of California were short because we spent the whole time watching the adorable Sea Otters. Couldn’t drag ourselves away!

2.8 miles in Patagonia

We nearly didn’t do this kayak trip because the weather looked dodgy. That is how it turned out. A sudden gale-force wind, which we heard approaching up the valley with a roar like a jet fighter, forced us to abort and walk out. We were only on the water for about an hour.

Never mind, at least it was another continent ticked off.

At least we saw an Andean Condor from the kayak seat…how cool is that!

No disrespect to Condors, but on it’s day, there is nowhere better than Cornwall and Devon.

How convenient.

Fowey, Fizzing with Fins

September 14, 2023 by rupertkirkwood, posted in common dolphin, Fowey, Giant Bluefin Tuna, Harbour Porpoise, porpoise

No time to wallow in jet lag. A super-flat sea off Cornwall cannot be ignored even though we only lurched in through the front door from our Orca-spotting trip to Canada late the previous night.

Fowey was my chosen destination…access to the open sea is close if one is feeling a bit jaded and it rarely disappoints when it comes to wildlife.

Last Saturday was no exception.

Five hour trip, fifteen miles paddled, three pods of porpoises, three pods of dolphins, three tuna ‘explosions’.

It was so calm and quiet that I heard all of these before I saw them…porpoises puffing, dolphins sploshing, tuna ripping the surface apart.

This is why I love the silence of the kayak, any engine noise would have drowned out the sounds of the sea. And the sound is 50% of the fun.

I paddled five miles directly offshore, had a cup of coffee and then headed back. That is when most of the action occurred.

I thought my ears were malfunctioning when I heard about twenty quiet puffs all very close together. Paddling towards the noise revealed about fifty dolphins in a tight pack. They were cruising about in a very relaxed and peaceful manner.

Their leisureliness was entirely in keeping with the ambience of the day.

It’s usually porpoises that are more chilled and the dolphins more animated.

Today they performed a big-time roll reversal. A pod of porpoises came charging directly towards me. Listen to those Puffing Pigs puff in this video.

It is unusual to see porpoises making much of a splash, but they were clearly late for lunch and were soon feasting on a ball of unseen baitfish nearby. The scraps kept the local gull population happy.

I sat around watching the action for quite a while because I felt sure that the mini-feeding frenzy would not go unnoticed by the tuna that I had seen earlier. They are a mega-aware predator with super-tuned senses and would not miss an opportunity like this.

Sure enough a couple exploded from the surface nearby. I’m tempted to say this one looks a bit startled.

Atlantic Bluefin Tuna showing the whites of its eye.

It was just a tiddler, only about six foot long.

All this was the perfect jetlag antidote…no time for moping about having an afternoon nap…it was just too exciting.

With some extremely photogenic scenes…

Risso’s in a Rush…at Fowey!

July 27, 2023July 28, 2023 by rupertkirkwood, posted in common dolphin, Fowey, Harbour Porpoise, porpoise, Risso's Dolphin

A couple of very early-morning dashes to Fowey during the last ten days demonstrate nicely all that I find thrilling about wildlife watching from the seat of a kayak. They also highlight the challenges and why chasing after highly mobile sea creatures in a tiny craft powered by chicken-wing arms is a really stupid thing to do.

Very early morning has been necessary because there have only been a couple of lulls of just a few hours when the wind has not been blowing hard. Wind makes the open sea a kayaking no-go. It’s not just for reasons of safety…a choppy sea makes seeing the fins difficult and a moving observation platform doesn’t help.

It’s a one mile trip under the gaze of the town of Fowey to access the open sea. It must be my favourite ‘urban’ paddle in the whole of Devon and Cornwall. Their is always so much going on and today a sumptuous cruise liner, ‘Silver Shadow’, had just arrived and was tying up in the middle of the estuary. Sleepy-eyed, pyjama-clad punters leaned over their balconies to take in the lovely scene.

There’s wildlife too, above and below the water. A nice relaxed build up to the potential excitement to come.

As I exited the estuary into open water I unconsciously engaged top gear because the sea was super-flat and I could see a lot of Gannets milling about in the distance.

Milling Gannets means fish which usually means big fish-munchers under the surface as well.

A mile or so offshore I thought I heard the puff of a porpoise so stopped paddling and cleared my earholes by doing that jaw thing. Even though kayaking is incredibly silent the quietest of sounds, such as a distant porpoise puff, can be masked by the slight splashing of the paddles and the scuffing of clothing during the paddling motion.

As I drifted to a halt it was really, REALLY, silent. And there was that puff again, so far away I knew I didn’t have a hope of seeing the porpoise which are small and have fins only about four inches tall.

I was about to set off in the direction of the puff when I heard a series of loud sploshes behind me. Distant and powerful. When I swung round I saw a succession of splashes which I initially thought were waves breaking on the distant headland. It was only when the splashes proceeded across the bay that I realised they must have speeding mega-creatures and judging by the size of the impacts when they hit the water…they were BIG.

My adrenaline levels maxed out so quickly it made my eyes bulge and the chicken wing arms whirred into action as I tried to close the gap on the speeding creatures that I had yet to see. What on earth were they? The splashes were far too big to be dainty and streamlined Common Dolphins. They were more like the raking swoosh of a hunting Giant Tuna, but Tuna rip the surface apart in a chaotic manner and do not progress in a specific direction like these splashes were doing.

I had never seen anything like this before.

I could see I wasn’t going to close the gap on these fast-moving creatures. They must have been moving at twenty mph. I kicked myself for being too far offshore. Typical! I usually don’t get to see stuff because I am not far enough out.

I just managed to get close enough to see glimpses of the creatures poking out of the plumes of spray.

I stopped paddling and fired off a few shots with the camera as they powered past in front of me. Although I had a fair idea that these were Risso’s dolphins, it was only when I reviewed the pictures later that I saw their blunt noses which confirmed their identity. I was staggered to see in the photos that there were some tiny calves accompanying the thumping great adults. Astonishing! How on earth can those little creatures power along at that sort of speed?!

There’s a little tacker in their as well!

Maybe it was a training session for the youngsters. Who knows?

Whatever, it was something I have never witnessed before and I was very envious of the gentleman in the yacht who had just emerged from Fowey as the pod of about twenty Risso’s ploughed close past in front of his bow.

Although I’m not entirely sure that he noticed them.

I lost sight of them as the splashes disappeared into the distance. They just kept on going…fast.

Incredibly, exactly the same thing happened four days later. Incredible because I had never seen Risso’s at Fowey before during dozens of previous visits.

The sea was even calmer and this time I heard the blows of the dolphins rather than seeing the splashes, as they were proceeding across the bay at a much more leisurely pace.

The blows sounded very powerful and I could estimate that there were about twenty in the pod even before I could see them. Probably the same group as four days previous.

Once again I was too far offshore and once again I only managed to close the gap enough for me to see them passing in the distance. It would be so much more sensible to have a boat with an outboard engine. The trials and tribulations of marine wildlife watching from a kayak!

Just like before, I only noticed that their were tiny calves accompanying the big fins when I reviewed my pics later.

Incidentally, Risso’s dolphins fins really do have the wow factor. They are up to twenty inches tall, so bigger than the fin of a Minke Whale. In fact they have the biggest fin of all the local cetaceans.

Phew, all pretty exhausting, but thrilling stuff.

But the action wasn’t over yet. A quiet little pod of Common Dolphins cruised past in the orange glow of the early morning.

And to wind up proceedings I sat in the middle of a pod of about ten porpoises as they merrily puffed around doing their busy porpoisey thing.

I missed a seriously impressive photo opportunity when this porpoise jumped clean out of the water. Autofocus didn’t quite have time to react!. Grrr. A porpoise in mid air is a rare event.

Missed Opportunity. Never mind, only another 30,000 miles to paddle till it happens again.

Photography from the kayak seat isn’t particularly easy. Neither is paddling out to sea looking for marine magafauna in a tiny human-powered craft.

That’s why I enjoy it so much.

ps…oh yeah I forgot another bonus of early morning paddling. It’s before the jetskis wake up…

‘ve made a couple of dashes to Fowey recently to make the most of a few hours of early summer morning calm before the wind picks up. The weather is exceptionally disturbed at the mo so careful planning is the key to success.

My efforts have paid off with two very memorable ten-mile circuits of the bay which nicely demonstrate all that I love about offshore kayaking.

Winter Magic up the Creeks of Cornwall and Devon

December 19, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Fowey, Great Northern diver, Kingfisher

Much as I love the thrill of staring eyeball to eyeball with cetaceans around the coast of SW England, it’s actually quite unusual for the sea to be flat enough to venture out to where they live in a kayak. Especially in autumn and winter. Particularly this autumn, it’s been very windy.

There have been just a couple of days, including this little porpoise adventure with Dave. Lovely to hear a dozen or so ‘Puffing Pigs’ doing their stuff in their quiet and unobtrusive manner.

So it’s time to head for the shelter of the creeks. The stronger the wind, the further inland you need to go. Fortunately there’s a lot to choose from around the coast and there’s always somewhere to baffle anything the weather can throw at you.

Early morning during winter in the upper estuaries is a good time to sneak a view of an otter, providing you are absolutely completely and utterly quiet and scrutinise every inch of bank as you glide silently along. Blink, and you’ve missed it…

Otter, Torridge

Carrick Roads adjacent to Falmouth is wide and exposed and although only moderately sheltered from the wind it is protected from swell, of which there has been a lot recently. It attracts a nice range of open coast birds such as these beautiful Great Northern Divers which have migrated in from Iceland or Greenland to spend the winter with us. Back news if you’re a snack-sized fish…look at that dagger of a beak!

A surprise sighting when I paid a visit to the area a couple of weeks ago was this Black Guillemot (black only in summer plumage). A rare visitor to the south of England, they breed up north.

Teignmouth estuary in Devon has the combined attraction of waterbirds AND trains. Although chilling at high tide just feet from the thundering carriages, these Oystercatchers don’t stir from their slumber as the trains clatter by.

Roosting Oystercatchers (and HST 43016!)

It was good to see Oli, the unusually-marked Oystercatcher with the white head, at Teignmouth during my last visit. He’s been around for at least five years now.

The Fowey estuary takes a lot of beating. The water is exceptionally clear because the Fowey river originates on the granite uplands of Bodmin Moor.

Dave, Paul and I ventured far, far up the creek during our last visit.

Providing you keep paddling at a steady rate and keep quiet the roosting Redshank will let you pass without spooking (them…or you!).

Likewise the local harbour seal. Not as absurdly curious as the Grey Seals, but certainly casually interested in a passing kayak.

As a last resort I take to the canals to seek some sheltered paddling. There’s not a lot of choice. Bude, Exeter and Grand Western Canal (GWC) in Tiverton.

If you like autumnal scenes it’s got to be the GWC:

Grand Western Canal, Extreme Photogenicity.

It’s even better of you are a Kingfisher fan:

The Flight of the Ospreys…Scotland to Senegal, via Fowey!

December 16, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Fowey, osprey

Two of the Ospreys I had the great pleasure of watching in the Fowey estuary in September and October had blue ‘Darvic’ rings on their left leg, which means they come from Scotland. English and Welsh birds have the ring on the right leg.

The first was a bird that flew over my head on 21 September. Not easy to photograph from a kayak…one second you are paddling, ten seconds later after the Osprey has appeared you’ve got to be zoomed in and ready to click that shutter. So I was pleased when one (and only one) of about twenty images was not a blurry disaster, which is usually the case with my efforts with birds in the air.

It was only when I reviewed the pics when I got home that I noticed the ring on the left leg:

I didn’t see that bird again, unlike the second Scottish Osprey that hung around the upper estuary for a fortnight in mid October. Appropriately, its favoured haunt was a horizontal branch under the canopy of a ragged Scots pine overlooking the water.

Blue 541, a taste of home amongst the gnarled boughs of an old Scots Pine

The ring on this bird was moderately easy to read when I zoomed in…

The ring, when I zoomed in on pic when I got home, was fairly easy to read. So I made some enquiries and pinged out several emails to Osprey groups and ringing websites but without success.

Until a couple of weeks ago when some of my friends fell into conversation with a fellow passenger on the aeroplane back from a birdwatching trip to Gambia. This passenger was Joanna Dailey from the Kielder Osprey Project in Northumberland and within a few hours of sending her my images of the ringed birds she had replied with their origins.

The first tag she thought was Blue 195, although it was indistinct on the photo. This bird was ringed in Abernethy, Cairngorm in 2019, so was an adult bird. Interestingly, this is the only adult Osprey I have seen at Fowey. All the others have been juveniles, which are quite easy to distinguish with pale margins to the feathers of their back.

Amazingly, this bird has been observed in Senegal by Osprey fan Jean-Marie Dupart, who surveys the Ospreys there. Here’s his photo:

Osprey Blue 195, pic by Jean-Marie Dupart

The second bird, Blue 541, is also involved in another mega-coincidence which is arguably even more remarkable. It was ringed in the nest by Brian Etheridge in Millbuie Forest, Black Isle, Highland on 21 July this year.

While attempting to apply the next ring to its nest-mate the bird, which was close to fledging so full of feistiness, struggled and the ring fell out of reach, so Brian had to use the next number in the sequence, 543.

And, would you believe, Joanna saw Blue 543, nest-mate to the Osprey that was at Fowey for a fortnight, in Gambia a couple of weeks ago!

Hopefully the two youngsters will now BOTH be safely installed in their wintering grounds in West Africa, and with a bit of luck I might even renew my acquaintance with them next year.

The Ospreys of Fowey

October 30, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Fowey, osprey

It’s almost too good to be true. Our most spectacular bird of prey, which had been just about blasted out of existence in the UK by Victorian shooters, is now a regular visitor to the creeks of Devon and Cornwall. After a gap of half a century, it nested again in Scotland in the fifties and has been expanding territory ever since, with the help of some reintroduction schemes such as at Rutland Water and Poole Harbour.

I have dreamed about seeing an Osprey ever since I was a little chap with legs like pipe-cleaners and saw a picture of one in my Observer’s Book of British Birds. That was when their was just one UK nest near the Cairngorms in Scotland.

Now they can be seen fairly reliably during the autumn as they stop off to refuel in southwest England during their 3,000 mile migration down to the coast of Gambia or Senegal in West Africa.

Watching Ospreys from the seat of a kayak is hard to beat. It’s quiet and unobtrusive and can get you places where others can’t go. Best of all you get an uninterrupted view and can look around continuously. This may seem obvious, but if you are walking you spend half the time looking where you are putting your feet, and in a powered boat there are a lot of distractions, not least the drone of the engine which fuzzes your concentration.

Only one problem with the go-anywhere kayak. You can easily approach too close and frighten the Ospreys. Yes I have done this and I now do everything I can to avoid it. I know most of their favourite trees around the estuary so can usually spot them from afar.

They often get ‘moved on’ by a passing boat, paddleboard or kayak who aren’t tuned in to Ospreys, but the birds don’t seem to mind too much and settle on another tree.They tend to move around a lot anyway as they follow the influx of Mullett which move in behind the incoming tide as soon as the water is deep enough.They are easy fliers with a buoyant flight on very long wings.

Some are very much less wary than others. Last year’s two juveniles, which I think must have come from the same nest, were extraordinarily tame. On one occasion a couple of chums and I were sharing a slab of Madeira cake on a creek-side beach, when we heard some crunching coming from a branch above our heads. An osprey had just started to munch it’s way through a Sea Bass, not twenty yards away. Happy as Larry (although the Bass wouldn’t have been best pleased)

Last year’s birds certainly had a refined taste. Every one of the fish I saw them catch and eat was a Bass. Quite an impressive feat because the vast majority of meal-sized fish in the estuary are Grey Mullet. I would guess they outnumber Bass by ten or twenty to one and look very similar from above the water. It must be even more difficult to distinguish between them when perched, or hovering, thirty or forty feet above the water as Ospreys like to do when hunting.

During the three weeks I watched them their success rate at catching fish improved significantly. They are fed by their father when at the nest so have to hone their hunting skills ‘on the hoof’ during migration, so when they arrive in Cornwall are actually very inexperienced when it comes to catching a meal.

This year’s birds seem to have had more of a taste for the Mullett, Or maybe individual birds have specific fishy tastes, who knows? I came across one which had just caught a hefty fish and had clearly been unable to lift it from the water so had just floundered ashore to eat it. I would have overlooked it had it not been ‘chipping’ loudly to a friend* in a nearby pine.

*one of the Osprey’s friends, not mine.

All of the Ospreys this year have preferred the quieter upper estuary where there is less boat traffic, unlike last year’s pair that were quite happy to crash into the water in amongst the flotilla of moored, and motoring(!) craft. They are big birds, with a five foot wingspan, and their white breast makes them easy to spot when perched. It’s even simpler when they are in flight because all the local gulls go berserk and make an enormous racket. Impossible to ignore, and easy to give a wide berth.

A pair of binoculars (which I don’t usually carry on my kayak because there is too much movement) and my camera’s 600mm lens has allowed disturbance-free viewing.

For an amazing six weeks there have been up to four, maybe once five, Ospreys around the estuary. It’s very difficult to be certain of the number because they rarely sit still for long and by the time I have paddled my kayak from one creek to another the Ospreys which I had seen an hour ago might have followed me round.

They think nothing of riding an updraught till they are a dot in the sky, and then half-closing their wings to slice back down the the water’s edge, where they are most happy.

The young birds also seem to enjoy sparring with the local heavies which harass them relentlessly. Crows, Ravens, Sparrowhawks and on one occasion a juvenile Peregrine…

As far as I can see every one this year has been a juvenile bird which has hatched out this summer. They are recognisable by the white edging to the feathers on their back, giving a scalloped effect. Adults have entirely dark backs.In fact all the Ospreys I have ever seen on the Fowey estuary have been youngsters. Maybe they HAVE to stop off in the south of England to learn how to fish efficiently, while the adults who migrate solo might fly direct to the continent.

Some certainly become streetwise, and work out other ways to secure a meal…such as trying to steal it from a chum!

Two birds have had leg rings. Both were blue ‘Darvic’ rings, which have large numbers/letters that can be read at distance, on the left leg. This means that they came from a nest in Scotland. English birds have blue rings on the right leg.

I photographed the first one on 21 September as it flew over my head. The tag is very indistinct but I would take a punt at 155:

The second I saw on 14 and 17 October and I’m fairly confident the ring number is 541.

I am in the process of trying to find out where these birds have come from…wouldn’t it be great to know? Watch this space.

I think they are now all gone on their way south. The last one I observed was on 20 October.

Good luck to them, because it’s not a straightforward trip with a load of potential hazards eg the vastness of the Bay of Biscay or Sahara Desert, navigational error, bad weather, being shot in southern Europe.

Over half of juvenile Ospreys fail to return from their first migration.

But you never know, maybe I’ll watch them from the comfort of the kayak seat up the most scenic of Cornish creeks again next year. I hope so.

Carry on Up the Creek

October 24, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Fowey, Kingfisher, osprey, Uncategorized

You’ve heard it all before. No matter what sort of meteorological mood the weather decides to be in, there is always a patch of water somewhere around Devon and Cornwall where you can find shelter. When the open sea looks hostile you can seek out a more protected bit of coast. When the hefty swells of autumn make the coast unappealing you can resort to the sanctuary of the estuaries and creeks.

There’s over a dozen inlets along the south coast including some very long and very large ones. The Tamar penetrates twenty miles inland, and the Fal/Truro river complex provide over seventy miles of protected shore to investigate.

The north coast isn’t so obliging. It’s a bit of an unbroken battlement of cliffs. The old seafarer’s saying

‘From Hartland Point to Padstow Light, ’tis a watery grave by day or night’,

gives you an idea of the lack of watery refuges along the north coast. In Cornwall the only significant estuary is the Camel, and in Devon the Taw/Torridge.

My current personal favourites are the Tamar and The Fowey estuaries, both in the south. They are both relatively close to home and are both fairly narrow and steep-sided, so provide good protection from a bit of a blow. Both are also flanked by broad-leaved woodland so you can enjoy the golden colours of the autumn leaves as a bonus.

That is if you have time to look away from the huge variety of animals that amaze, both above and below the surface…

Sometimes the animals and bronze-tinged backdrop combine in a satisfactorily aesthetic manner…

The mud of the tidal creeks is incredibly fertile and choc full of slithery creatures, which are nourished from upstream by trillions of decomposing fallen leaves coming down with the rivers, and from the other direction by the tides.

Wading birds arrive from the north to spend the winter here in very large numbers to sift and prod and probe the muddy shorelines. Some have been around for months already. I think my favourites are the Greenshank, whose loud piping calls provide a fitting soundtrack to these winding strips of mini-wilderness. They are lovers of wild places and nest in the remotest of desolate boggy places in the north of Scotland.

The locals are represented by Herons and Egrets which are present year round. I would estimate that there are twenty to thirty times more of these species along the shore of the estuaries compared to the fresh water of a river or a lake. So that means there is twenty to thirty times more food for them to eat. Mainly thanks to the tide. The sea is a staggeringly fertile habitat.

Some Kingfishers nest nearby but most arrive from elsewhere to spend the winter here. You can’t paddle very far without hearing the high-pitched ‘peeep’ of a Kingfisher as it zips past.

Down in the lower reaches of the Tamar Estuary, close to where it emerges into the sea at Plymouth Sound, it is an absolute joy to hear the lively calls of Sandwich Terns which visit in the autumn. They are en route to West Africa and the youngsters seem hardly to pause long enough to gather breath before squeaking demandingly at their parents. After every call the parents diligently (if a little wearily) reply, and every so often the conversation reaches fever pitch when an adult arrives with a sandeel.

They are really great little birds, bursting with personality.

Their favourite resting places are buoys.

If there’s eight in a row, that is just perfect!

From an ornithological perspective, it was extreme excitement and extreme gloom in equal measure up the Fowey estuary a month ago. I paddled past corpses of several adult Gannets two miles from the open sea (which is their normal home). Worse than this I watched a few more about to breathe their last in a patch of seaweed on the shore.

Our biggest and most magnificent seabird, with its impressive six foot wingspan, seems to have had its UK population completely poleaxed by Avian Flu.

On a more positive note, during the same trip, I was thrilled to see a couple of Ospreys looking for fish in the clear water of the Fowey River.

If you are a Grey Mullett or Sea Bass and are enjoying following the incoming tide, feasting on plentiful food stirred up by the currents, there’s one thing you really don’t want to see if you happen to glance upwards.

This. Panic!

The thrilling (and not so thrilling) sights and sounds of the creeks did not finish there.

I thought my grey matter was playing tricks on me when I heard the blast of a horn than instantly transported me back to the last place I heard such a noise. Platform 4, Reading General Station, 1974. I could even see my trainspotting chums, smell the oily grime and taste my Aztec bar.

Yes indeed, it was a legendary Class 37 locomotive. Built in 1965.

They don’t make them like that any more.

To quote one of my primary school chums, Alan, who had wisdom beyond his years, ‘Once a trainspotter, always a trainspotter’

Swimming Squirrel. Completely Nuts.

September 16, 2022September 23, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in Fowey

Expect the unexpected.

I hate cliches like this but yesterday on the Fowey estuary it was entirely appropriate.

I had set off early before the north wind kicked in, and was enjoying a flurry of wildlife activity. An inquisitive seal, a passing posse of Greenshank looking for somewhere to roost at high tide and best of all, a distant Osprey.

A hundred metres ahead a strange-shaped semi-submerged log seemed to be moving. Very slowly, but definitely with purpose.

I paddled towards it very cautiously and quietly and was staggered to see it was a squirrel. Its body was largely submerged but the bushy tail which was floating buoyantly was a bit of a giveaway. Swimming with great tenacity towards the east side of the estuary, a total bank to bank distance of about four hundred metres.

It was really going for it. Even at long range I could see its eyes glinting brightly and sense the aura of grit and determination.

Until it got half-way across.

Squirrel, a long way from shore.

Then it seemed to slump a little in the water. The far bank didn’t seem to be getting any closer. I assumed it would climb out on the floating branch for a breather, but no…it just carried on past!

At last the sanctuary of the trees on the shore was only a few minutes away. Slick swimming technique had gone out of the window. Limbs were tired and head was bobbing.

Approaching bank

As the bedraggled little beast clambered out of the water, it once again chose the difficult option. Instead of using the ramp of a fallen branch to access the wood, it attempted to scale the vertical rock face like a Guns of Navarone commando.

It was clearly completely exhausted and just clung to the mini-cliff by its fingernails.

It was so pitiful I really couldn’t watch any longer and as I turned to paddle away I heard the wet thwack of the squirrel falling back into the water. Next to the discarded crisp packet.

It was an ignominious end to an Olympian feat. But at least it made it across and was OK. I saw it staggering away into the undergrowth.

This is the third swimming squirrel I have seen. The first was across the Torridge estuary last year, the second was a couple of weeks ago not far from this location in the Fowey estuary.

I have come across plenty of corpses, especially last year when there was a squirrel boom, which demonstrates how much of a physical challenge it is to these little creatures.

I think these are probably juveniles who are lured by the promise of a land full of trees laden with hazelnuts and acorns and devoid of buzzards.

If only this one knew it was very much the same on the other side as where it had started.

I hope it doesn’t try to swim back.

Whales all over the Place… Plymouth, Padstow and Bude.

August 17, 2022August 17, 2022 by rupertkirkwood, posted in common dolphin, Eddystone, Fowey, Harbour Porpoise, Minke Whale, Otter, Storm Petrel, Whale

Four Minke Whales in three separate locations around Cornwall and Devon over a four day period.

Plus a tantalising encounter four miles off my nearest beach at Bude. Unfortunately I only heard a single blow and despite straining ears and eyes to the horizon I saw and heard nothing more.

So, mega-excitement involving mega-Minkes matched only by the totally tropical conditions that have enveloped the south of UK over the last week or so.

The first whale was off Plymouth, the day before my really extraordinary close encounter with an inquisitive Minke off Fowey, reported in my last blog.

The omens for a good wildlife day were good as I eyeballed seals and a few Fallow Deer along the coast as I was waiting for the stiff offshore wind to drop.

I would have missed the quiet little pod of Common Dolphins had I not heard the deckhand aboard the Crabber PH385 ‘Shiralee’ say ‘Hello’ with the sort of intonation he would if his favourite pet had just appeared. I just knew he addressing a dolphin.

Sure enough there was a handful of fins quietly cruising along beside the little fishing boat. In sunshine and calm conditions. Superb.

As you will here the captain say in this video clip…’you can’t get much closer than that’.

I continued directly offshore towards the Eddystone lighthouse, visible as a tiny stick on the horizon ten miles away. This might have been my 22nd (or is it 23rd) trip out to that remote and iconic location, but I knew the wind was going to pick up and I probably wouldn’t get all the way.

I didn’t, but mainly because I was distracted by the wildlife. As I approached the half-way buoy I heard the puff of porpoises, the splash of dolphins…and the blow of a whale! As usual that prolonged and loud blast of air made me surge into action even though the whale was still too far away to see.

Ten minutes later I was in visual range and saw that long back roll at the surface…

Minke Whale off Plymouth. Looe island 12 miles behind.

Was it in Devon? Because a whale in Devon is a very special sight. The majority of Minke sightings are in Cornwall as they venture in from the open Atlantic.

mmm… not entirely sure it crossed the border, which is a line from Plymouth Sound to Eddystone.

I about-turned a couple of miles from the lighthouse and was briefly checked out by a pod of dolphins on the way back: (video)

Eddystone Dolphins

Close to the half-way reef I glimpsed a sparkle near the horizon far to the east. It must have been sun glinting off a fin, and it lasted too long for a dolphin. Fifteen minutes of hard paddling later I saw the whale roll at the surface again and this time it was most definitely in Devon. Excellent.

To wrap up the cetacean bonanza for the day there were a few more porpoises and another pod of Common Dolphins:

The next day was the extreme whale encounter at Fowey, followed the day after by a cetacean-free trip with Dave as we paddled the coast near Lands End. However we had arguably an even more extreme sighting. I could hardly believe my optic nerves when I found myself staring eyeball to eyeball with an otter. Along the open coast in bright midday sunshine….whhaaat?

No time for a pic unfortunately, so here’s the Fowey whale again instead:

Plus a nice pic of Dave and the tremendous granite cliffs near Land’s End:

Incredibly, chum Cush happened to be flying overhead at 1000ft in a helicopter flight from Land’s End, and somehow spotted us looking like little tiny minnows in the cobalt-blue sea below:

The following day there was a window of glass calm sea off the north Cornish coast, so that’s where I went.

A couple of miles offshore near Rumps Point, Polzeath, I heard that amazing blow again. Absolutely astonishing and my first ever Minke Whale off the north coast.

It was very mobile and it took me half-an-hour of ‘hunting’ before I even got a glimpse of it. This was all at long-range apart from one fairly close surface about 100 metres away.

I was distracted by a small pod of dolphins but ventured off elsewhere when three large eco-safari RIBS came along to look.

A mile to the north I heard another whale. Or was it the same one? It seemed smaller than the first but I can’t be sure it was a different individual. I’ll record it as one…scientifically cautious, as always.

No pics of this whale but it was great to get an image of another ocean wanderer, a tiny European Storm Petrel. A real offshore speciality.

All in all an incredible whale-fest facilitated by some equally incredible weather.

Here’s a couple of interesting Minke facts/observations I have made/mulched over the last few days:

1.Most people at sea do not notice Minke Whales. Despite being up to 30ft long, they are very easy to overlook. They roll at the surface without a splash like a giant porpoise, and spend less than thirty seconds above the water every ten minutes. I watched many a speedboat and yacht pass the whale off Plymouth the other day, and nobody saw it. No change of conversation onboard, no shout of exclamation, no change in direction (as there always is when a pod of dolphins is spotted).

2. It is often thought that Minke Whales do not have a visible blow because they breathe out underwater before they break the surface. This is in fact not the case, as you can observe, and hear, in this video. The whale does not exhale until the blowhole is well above the surface. And that is definitely exhalation, because you can hear it breathing in afterwards.

More whales soon, with a bit of luck.

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