The coast is full of anxious Guillemots transporting a single silver fish each, flying in strict convoy. There are parading Puffins waiting for their pufflings to fledge and Great Skuas patrolling for the ill or unwary.
There’s a strange sound out to sea and we turn to see a Peregrine Falcon, as grey as the Atlantic, screeching at our intrusion.
As it flies up and down the coast I spot it heading towards the cliffs and it pitches a perfect landing.
There’s an old Raven’s nest on the cliffs. I wonder if the Peregrine’s commandeered it? Peregrines don’t build nests but they do need something to protect the eggs and chicks from the wind and the weather conspiring together.
This is a handy position underneath a rock overhang. Does it look like an ogre to you?
Green hair and a sharp nose? I move slowly away so I don’t disturb it. The Peregrine, that is, not the Ogre.
The next time I’m walking the path I see a Peregrine again.
It rests for hours on the cliff. So would I if I was that full of Pigeon. Sorry, I should say Rock Dove here.
Later I see a Peregrine arrive back at the cliff and as it does another one takes flight.
As it flies along the cliffs I see it twitch in the air and a Puffin takes extreme evasive action. Peril is everywhere and Peregrines are masters of peril.