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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
…which IS the record.
The Lone Kayaker 