As I approached the clifftop at Troup Head in north Aberdeenshire, the intoxicating aroma of briny sea air suddenly enveloped my senses and ahead of me the white-cloaked forms of gannets swirled in the air on outstretched wings.
With excited anticipation, I increased my pace and was soon standing on this spectacular clifftop near Gardenstown looking down upon throngs of gannets, their buff-yellow heads and striking, snow-pure plumage glowing bright in the morning sunshine. There was a stiff breeze and many gannets rode the air currents, hanging motionless for several seconds before wheeling away down towards the sea.
This was a bustling hive of activity and a cacophony of cackling noise – a seabird city that inspires and enthrals. The large, white-fluffed bodies of rapidly growing chicks nestled besides their parents, while adult birds squabbled amongst themselves. There were many adult pairs without chicks, and they bobbed and swivelled their heads to strengthen their pair bonds in the hope of successful breeding some stage in the future. This is a feature of gannets, with young adults congregating at nesting sites yet still not ready breed. However, they gain vital experience by attending these breeding colonies where they learn the ropes of courtship and establishing themselves into pairs.
Troup Head is the only mainland colony of gannets in Scotland and the cliffs have an interesting history with the birds only first breeding there in the mid-1980s. Over the following years, numbers increased rapidly, and at the last official count in 2023, 4,379 pairs were recorded. Gannet numbers are now increasing again after being temporarily hit hard by Avian Flu.
Many other seabirds breed at Troup Head, including guillemots and razorbills. It was especially gratifying to see good numbers of young, almost fully fledged, kittiwakes on many of the cliff ledges. These elegant, oceanic gulls have endured much in recent times, both from the Avian Flu and a shortage of their main food, sandeels, most probably caused by our warming seas.
After a while enjoying the gannets, I headed eastwards along a path, passing coastal features with such enchanting names as Nether Stair and Hare’s Nose and then down into Downie Bay where wildflowers swayed in the sea breeze, including perennial sow thistle and autumn hawkbit. Several yellowhammers swept up in the air before me, the males displaying wonderful lemon-hued heads, whilst the plumage of the female and young birds was more muted, yet still with an underlying beauty.
I also heard the jangling call of a corn bunting, which resembles the sound of a bunch of keys being vigorously shaken. They are scarce birds nationally, with numbers having plummeted over the last half century or so due to the intensification of agriculture. The bird called once more and I glimpsed it on a distant fence post by a field of oats. As I was about to bring it under the scrutiny of my binoculars, it whirled away on brown-blurred wings and disappeared into the depths of the cereal crop where its nest was no doubt hidden.