Spreading his wings to stabilise himself, the persistent wind tries to prise their bold black tips from the cliff-face. Wrenching grass from the ledge on this sheer drop, the gannet collects precious nesting material.
For another, it’s time to go. Pushing off from the rock, wings spread, she seems to have no fear of falling as she slides through the snowstorm of seabirds without hitting a drop.
The puffin perches nearby. Her wings must beat 400 times per minute to fly. Goodness knows how she got up here, but here she stands in her orange wellies. Her nearest companions are two razorbills who converse loudly, seeming not to have noticed her. With no other puffins to chat with, she calmly surveys the ruckus, preening a silky black wing with her striking beak.
A less respectful razorbill flies up to land on her narrow ledge. Her five minutes of peace are over, and she launches down into the wind, as the newcomer makes himself at home.
A slightly larger puffin spots a friend on an exposed outcrop and decides to join them. Waddle, waddle, hop. Over the shrubbery. He stabilises himself above her and they both look out to sea. She leans forward, just a fraction, then springboards away from the cliff-city. Flap, flap, flapping over the waves. Unperturbed, he stays where he is. His colourful beak stands out amongst the razorbills. In a few minutes she returns, landing with her feet flat against the rock. It was a lot of effort just to land a little higher up, but her flat feet aren’t well designed for scaling a cliff face.
Happier now with her position, she begins to preen. Head nuzzling under her wing, she curves her neck impossibly back to reach her tail feathers. She raises her wings up and gives them a quick shake before resuming the plump puffin on a rock position. It suits her well, and there she stays as a squadron of gannets flies past the abandoned site of RAF Bempton.
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