The Lone Kayaker

There has been an excited chatter amongst the small community of kayak safari enthusiasts recently…when are the Risso’s going to return?

The intensity of expectation has been fuelled by the spectacular numbers of these exotic-sounding and exotic-looking dolphins that showed up around Devon nad Cornwall last year. My own records reflect that 2025 was the best year ever for Risso’s sightings around SW England:

The spring appearance of these mysterious beasts from the deep coincides with the movement of cuttlefish into shallow waters to breed. The spike last year, and to a lesser extent 2023, was caused by a boom/bloom of octopus, another cephalopod Risso’s favourite.

2023 was a mini-bloom, 2025 was the biggest bloom for 75 years, possibly the biggest ever.

So I’ve been all eyes and ears for the first sign of the return of these hefty creatures. They have a very satisfactory loud blow which can be easily heard before they come into sight from the silence of a kayak on a calm day. Last year I pursued a pod I could hear puffing for over an hour before I eventually caught sight of those tall fins.

Yesterday my chosen launch spot was Lamorna Cove, just 8 miles short of Lands End.

It’s a stunning little place with decent beach at low tide, but not as popular as it should be because the parking meters only accept coins. Stand nearby and you can hear a whole lotta cussing going on!

The sea was completely calm so I paddled directly offshore, just avoiding the outgoing Scillonian III.

I was soon amongst the throng of seabirds that cruise west along the coast here. Lines of Guillemots and Razorbills, gangs of Gannets and a steady stream of Manx Shearwaters. I never tire of watching these stiff-winged birds who are totally in tune with the sea surface. They eek out energy-saving efficiency in every undulation.

The Razorbills and Guillemots also sat around in groups, cackling.

None of these seabirds show any fear of my kayak, in fact if you sit absolutely still they swim over for a closer look.

The Gannets do not like the Penzance to Scilly helicopter, however. It is very loud and flies quite low and the lazy lines of flying Gannets scatter in panic when it thunders overhead.

As I paddled slowly westwards I was pretty keen to see something special, particularly as I was in the absolute prime location and the sea was as smooth as it was ever going to be.

Half-a-mile inshore of me a passing yacht, which was under motor, slowed to a halt and I could see people on the front deck. Their body language suggested they were looking at something so I eased over for a look.

There! I heard a loud blow as a very big fin appeared a hundred metres behind the yacht followed by a large swirl, and then another surfaced a bit further away.

Risso’s Dolphins, for sure.

I paddled slowly closer but I wasn’t confident of getting closer. Risso’s are deep divers and cover a huge distance underwater. They blow four or five times at the surface, throw their tails in the air and are gone for five minutes. Where they are going to resurface is anybody’s guess. They quite often just completely disappear.

Also they are notoriously shy so I didn’t want to just charge in amongst them.

There was actually only a few…4 or 5…it’s surprisingly difficult to tell when they are scattered about.

By sheer luck I saw one heading directly towards me when it surfaced so I was ready with camera up when it took its second breath. Completely unexpectedly an ivory-coloured calf appeared beside mum’s side as she rolled for a deep dive. What an amazing sight!

I couldn’t believe my luck…I had no idea that there was a calf at all, and it obliged by bringing its head clear of the water so I could appreciate the full face including the trademark dolphin smile.

As mother dived deep the calf did not follow but just lay on the surface. This suggests it is very young and not yet capable of a big dive.

I sat and watched for an hour. It was a tremendous experience…over a mile offshore in complete silence apart from the sporadic blow of a Risso’s. The only other sounds were the faint cry of a Chough from the adjacent cliff and the appalling roar of the Scilly helicopter every so often.

I had been sitting in my kayak for 5 hours and was getting hot. It was totally sunny and I was wearing a full drysuit plus several thermal layers below…it was chilly when I set of at 7!

So it was time to head in to the most beautiful beach in Cornwall to shed a layer. Just as I started paddling two more Risso’s sped past at top speed, throwing up quite a splash each time they surfaced.

Lunch was taken on the more-or-less deserted beach.

I paddled back tight to the coast to keep out of the stiff tide flowing against me.

It was great to see a pair of Choughs pass overhead. They just can’t resist a constant chatter.

My wildlife day wasn’t quite over.

A Herring Gull downed a rather scratchy-looking starfish whole…

…and finally a seal popped up behind me, as they often do. It’s always a surprise and not goo for the neck.

So the big dolphins are back…I’m looking forward to our next meeting.

Will and I weren’t expecting a Bottlenose Dolphin. Common Dolphins were very possible and there was an outside chance of a Minke Whale…my paddling chum Paul had seen one in this location almost exactly a year ago. But not a Bottlenose Dolphin because I havn’t seen one along the north coast of Cornwall for about 20 years.

Sea conditions were about as good as can be expected at Boscastle. The sea is always restless here and despite a surf forecast of 0-1ft the groundswell was still enough to make our kayaks bounce around a bit.

We opted for a big circuit…along the coast as far as Trebarwith Strand…loop around the extraordinary fang of an islet which like most islands around Cornwall is called Gull Rock…then paddle back keeping well offshore and boosted by the incoming tide.

The vertical, eroded cliffs on the seaward sides of Short and Long Island were covered in Guillemots and Razorbills which were packed in tight onto every available ledge. The constant cackle they produce is not an attractive noise but one of the great sounds of the spring along the open coast.

There! There were a couple of smaller auks with white faces bobbing about on the edge of a socialising pack of Guillemots….Puffins!

To see a Boscastle Puffin is a treat because there are only a handful nesting on the islands compared to the hordes of ‘Razors’ and ‘Guilles’.

As we watched the Puffins our first Barrel Jellyfish of the year…a huge, ghostly, cream-coloured, pulsating chandelier the size of a dustbin, wafted past below.

A third solo Puffin zipped overhead.

As we skirted the crystal clear green waters off the beaches of Bossiney a frantic looking Woodpigeon was careering towards us, pursued in level flight by a beefy-looking Peregrine…probably a female.

The pigeon attempted to take refuge in a rock crevice but the falcon followed and managed only to grab a handful of feathers as the pigeon dodged out. This was repeated exactly as the pigeon sought another refuge. We could hardly believe it escaped for a second time.

The pursued bird then settled on a ledge just above the water only a few metres from where we were sitting, agog, in our kayaks. Did it deliberately choose to land close to us because it knew the Peregrine would not follow? I suspect so.

The pigeon sat and panted…and was still open-beaked as we left it to recover in its own time.

Tintagel Island always impresses from the sea and is maybe even more eye-catching with the ‘new’ bridge across the gap. It was prowled by tourists with selfie-sticks.

Our loop around Gull Island and back up the coast was uneventful. Nothing much to add to our wildlife tally.

As we were just about to enter Boscastle Harbour under the gaze of the National Coastwatch building looking, I was in a bit of a daydream as I thought our chances of a ‘fin’ had passed.

Will exclaimed that he had seen a fin and as I rebooted my brain I glimpsed a broad-based grey triangle appear after a visible small blow. Risso’s or Bottlenose surely…that fin’s too big for a Common!

We eased a bit closer and waited. After a surprisingly long time we heard a distant blow and the fin appeared again, three or four times, before we saw the tailstock roll as the dolphin deep-dived. This happened several times, all at quite a distance and all unsatisfactory views in the choppy surface.

The fin looked pale grey so we suspected Bottlenose but it would be nice to know for sure…we had to see that beak for confirmation.

At last there it was…just showing above the water prior to a dive…a Bottlenose dolphin for certain.

We watched it for half an hour but it was very busy feeding and surprisingly difficult to observe. It showed no interest in our kayaks whatsoever but maybe we didn’t get close enough for it to clock we were there.

Quite a contrast to Reggie the last Bottlenose I saw in September, who wouldn’t leave us alone!

A fitting end to a memorable 14 mile trip.

I like setting myself stupid challenges. It ensures that I get out on the water as often as possible, so even if the objective I have set myself fails…which it usually does…I have maximised the chance of an interesting observation. All the stuff I love to see is directly proportional to how much time I spend looking.

I had seen an otter and dolphins a few days apart, so I thought a beaver would nicely complete the hat-trick. All within a week would be nice.

So I flogged up and down a south coast estuary three days in a row, with a pre-dawn start every time.This requires a bit of commitment, especially as I didn’t see very much during the first two trips.

Having said that It was fun watching a fox staring at me like it couldn’t quite believe what its eyes were relaying to its brain. What on earth was this old guy doing sitting in the middle of a river in a yellow kayak at 6am?

Early during the third expedition I turned and looked behind me for some inexplicable reason. I hardly ever do this because action is much more likely to be in the unchartered territory ahead and also my neck is a bit worn out.

A sturdily-built beaver was walking purposefully down the muddy bank and slithered into the water…and disappeared. I waited and watched for five minutes but it was gone so I carried on up the river.

Incredibly ten minutes later I saw a flat head creating a V of ripples far ahead, swimming in the same direction. The same beaver for certain.

I stealthily closed the distance and for the next hour watched and followed this adult beaver as it worked its way up the river, frequently stopping to strip the bark off small willow and hawthorn branches or to have a good scratch and preen.

My previous experience is that beavers are more shy than otters but this one seemed to tolerate my presence. It must have detected me as I was pulled in all sorts directions I didn’t want to go by the current, but I kept as far away as I could and as quiet as I could.

I’ll let the videos do the talking…and the scratching…

I absolutely love getting insights into the personalities of the creatures I am observing. This beaver appears to be spooked by something as it is in the middle of a good scratch. It looks as though it is alarmed by a large branch which is floating past on the swift current which looks like the back of a large beaver or maybe something more unpleasant, possibly with aggressive intent.

See for yourself:

As far as I am concerned it is absolutely tremendous to see these endearing creatures back where they belong beside our local rivers and estuaries. For four centuries since they last stripped the willow here, the local ecosystems will not have been functioning correctly, like an engine with a faulty spark plug.

Their steady-eddy and relentless work with those scissor-sharp incisors is a huge benefit to the habitat adjacent to the watercourses. Their dams store water and reduce flooding events. The ponds enhance aquatic-dependent wildlife. They coppice which provides a mosaic of light and shade.

It’s funny how their reputation seems to have blown them up into rampaging beasts that are intent on felling every tree in the area. As far as I can see, many more riverbank trees fall due to natural erosion or after storms or floods than are felled by a beaver. You might argue that overall less trees will be lost because of the buffering effect of beaver dams on water surges.

Beavers are shy and unobtrusive and are rarely seen because they are mainly nocturnal. Unlike otters, they rarely stray more than a few metres from water. Most people will never see one.

This particular individual certainly made my day.

So…mission accomplished…Otter, Dolphin, Beaver in a week. What next, I wonder?

Nothing is more absorbing than three or four hours paddling silently down the UK’s premier otter river, the Torridge. I’m tempted to say that it’s mindful, but in fact it is the complete opposite. If you have any clutter on the brain you will not be concentrating hard enough to catch a glimpse…your mind has to be not so much full as completely empty!

Total and utter stealth is required, and scrutiny of every unexplained movement, splash or swirl Most will turn out to be a distant Mallard, a Dipper belly-landing on the surface or a lazily rotating leaf…but you might just be lucky.

Otter-spotting on this particular river is a big deal. Together with the adjacent river Taw it is the home of the most famous otter of them all, Henry Williamson’s Tarka…England’s premier otter country.

I think that otters on this river are the wariest in the world. Of the fourteen otter species globally the Eurasian otter is the most shy, and here in North Devon they are even more so because have been hunted and persecuted more intensively than anywhere else. Otter hunting with dogs was banned in 1978 but I’m sure super-wariness is still hard-wired into the local otter’s DNA.

All wildlife along the Torridge is extremely spooky. Even though I drift along in complete silence the local Mallard and Goosander take flight as soon as I appear round the corner 200m away. This is no doubt because pheasant shooting is still big around here. Everything is super-shy. They’ve learnt the hard way.

If you paddle down the River Wye in a kayak or canoe the Goosanders will tolerate you passing just a few metres away. They’ve learnt that these craft are not a threat, and that humans don’t always present the risk of a buttful of buckshot.

During my first trip along the river a couple of weeks ago I was very smug to see a single big swirl beside a fallen tree far, far ahead. It must be an otter hunting on the river bed. I drifted silently to the opposite bank and watched. More swirls, the otter came up, but then just completely disappeared. In couldn’t believe I had been detected. I was totally silent, there was no wind and I was twenty metres away.

That was it…four hours of intense effort for a half-second glimpse. Amazingly precisely the same thing happened the following day 100m further down the river, although this time the glimpse was perhaps one whole second.

This was undoubtedly a dog otter and probably an older and wiser one …so even MORE wily. Possibly the wariest individual in the wariest population of the wariest otter species in the world.

I was determined not to be beaten. I went back for more on day three and screwed my ageing eyeballs up to eek out a few more metres of sight. I was just approaching a rapid when I glimpsed a dark crescent flash above the surface for a fraction of a second…the back of a hunting otter!

It was probably the same one, just half a mile downstream of where I had seen it on the previous two days. Otters seem to stick to a routine. They are mainly nocturnal but some individuals prefer to stay up later than others. They do tend to be in the same place for several consecutive days.

Gotcha…this time the otter was surely too busy to notice me at this range. The rippling of the rapid would help cause a distraction as well, although I was of course making no noise and trying to keep the sound of my racing pulse in my temples under control.

I managed to get a half-decent video of it working its way up the rapid, frequently stopping to consume a crunchy snack, some of which were long thin fish, so eels or small lamprey.

However, even though the range was extreme and I was half-hidden in a bush. the blooming otter suddenly froze, stared at me, and was gone.

I was amazed it had somehow detected me from such a long way. It’s quite a contrast to the pack of Smooth-coated otters Becky and I saw in Singapore last year which looked like they were going to clamber aboard our kayak and mug us.

I have also watched otters hunting up the river here and pass just a few yards away. As long as you keep absolutely still and silent and havn’t caked on the aftershave too thickly you should be OK.

Even so, still an absolute thrill to see this charismatic species, the symbol of the UK wilderness, so close to home.

They really have taken a battering, not only with hunting but also they were practically wiped out in the UK from pesticide poisoning in the 50s and 60s.

Now they no doubt suffer from the catastrophic decline in salmon in the local rivers. Although the bulk of otter’s prey is small fish, they mothers rely on larger fish to take back to their kits when they are learning the trade. Is this why I don’t see so many otter families along the river as I did a few years ago.

A couple of very first natural history films were about otters: ‘Ring of Bright Water’ in 1969 and ‘Tarka the Otter’ in 1979.

That’s maybe why everyone loves otters. But not as much as me, surely.

Common Dolphins are always doing something different. That’s one of the reasons why their name ‘Common’ is so inappropriate. There’s nothing common about them at all. Apart from the fact that they are the world’s most abundant cetacean, I suppose.

They never cease to amaze, surprise and entertain. It’s always an absolute thrill to see that spiky fin breaking the surface but you never know quite what you are going to get.

Are they just speeding past, are they busy feeding, are they resting, are they aloof or in a kayak-engaging mood?

In this respect they differ very much from Harbour Porpoises who hang out in just about the same places. Porpoises, charming though they are, are always busy feeding…rolling at the surface with hardly a splash, constantly changing direction and never coming too close to a kayak. Occasionally they ‘log’ for a minute or two at the surface on a clam day, and occasionally they leap clear of the water, but not very often.

I don’t want to be disrespectful to porpoises, particularly as they are a speciality from a kayak because you can hear their loud puff so clearly, but when it comes to wow factor Common Dolphins just have it.

Our last three encounters over the last fortnight demonstrate what I am attempting to explain very nicely.

The first encounter was a vigorous feeding frenzy with a lot of churning and splashing water, dolphins bursting half out of the water and fish being scattered about everywhere. A pod of approximately 30.

A few days later the dolphins were split into smaller groups and they were scattered around the bay feeding very slowly and quietly in the manner of prpoises. Each little pod was attended by twenty or thirty Manx Shearwaters whicg circled around or plunge-dived from the surface to cash in on the herding of the fish by the dolphins.

Interestingly no porpoises were present…when the dolphins wre around the porpoises move elsewhere…they just don’t seem to get along.

Our last dolphin encounter a few days ago was quite remarkable. A couple of pods totalling 30-50 dolphins, which were all older juveniles as far as we could judge (looking at body and fin size), seemed to be transfixed by Will and I.

It was not a surprise that a delegation chose to surge alongside us as we cranked up the speed…they often like to do this when they first come over to check us out.

However when we eased of the gast to let them go on their way they just loafed around our kayaks…for the best part of an hour. This WAS a surprise.

To be sitting in the open sea several miles from the shore, in the centre of a pod of two dozen loafing dolphins and in complete silence apart from the mild blast of their puffs, is quite an experience for body and soul.

There cannot be any other situation where you are surrounded by so many large wild animals, so close you could reach out and touch them, unless you are being stampeded by a herd of buffalo.

Even better they are choosing to come and see you on THEIR terms…no fear or pursuit involved.

Even better still you have an extra dose of satisfaction because you have got out their under your own power.

Oops I seem to be going a bit off the point here.

Dolphins definitely behave differently according to the size of fish they are hunting. During the splashy feeding frenzy they were after Cornish sardines. We could see that as several fish nearly ended up in our kayaks. Sardines are medium-sized dolphin prey.

I’m not sure what they were pursuing when the Manx Shearwaters were in attendance but I think it might have been whitebait or sprats. Small fish that don’t require too much speed to catch. It was all very sedate.

At the other end of the scale when dolphins are chasing mackerel they can explode from the surface in an almost tuna-esque fashion.

The different requirements for a raid on fish of varying size, such as speed and pod size to round up the prey into a baitball, is all mixed up with the different approach to life with dolphins of a different age. The adults seem to be very much more reserved than the juveniles. The latter get very excited when there is a watercraft nearby, yes even a boring old kayak. The younger they are, the more excited they get.

Also if there are baby calves in the pod this has to be factored in the the cruise speed of the pod and protecting the youngsters. They stick like glue to mum’s side so she cannot go dashing off anywhere.

This is all absolutely fascinating stuff and I have had the pleasure to upload all this into my gnarly brain just by sitting and watching them. So it might all be a load of baloney!

On the last occasion the lengthy show was also enjoyed by a very animated boatful of passengers aboard ‘Whistler’, Devon Sea Safari’s RIB skippered by Rob Hughes.

Rob will spot anything that moves from several miles away and he observed the pod of juvenile dolphins returning in our direction as they were bow-riding the local large sightseeing ship from Dartmouth.

Perfect, the dolphins transferred towards our three smaller craft as the ship veered away, providing a fitting end to a memorable day.

Despite the implications of the name, it is impossible to get bored of Common Dolphins.

A whole load of reasons of why not to go whirled through my pea-brain as I lay in bed supping a cuppa in the darkness of the early hours a couple of days ago.

Paddling out to the Eddy is a hefty day trip…25 miles minimum…the tides were not in my favour, the wind might pick up later. I’ve never paddled out there this early in the year. I’m not as young as I used to be. Also I would be paddling solo.

The prospect of a major wildlife encounter bulldozed aside all these concerns. A few Minke Whales had been seen further west and even a couple of Orcas. Surely one might be hunting in the trough just before the Eddystone reef. I have seen Minkes there before, although that was during the bumper baitfish time in early August.

I really needed to see another whale.

I thought the best course of action was to go and take a look. As I drove along the spectacular clifftop road at Whitsand bay in the steely pre-dawn glow, I could see the sea was completely smooth apart from a lazy swell that was creating the perfect surf waves on the sandy beach.

I was going!

As planned, I exited Plymouth Sound just as the sun was rising. It was timed to absolute perfection, in fact.

I bumped across a confusion of current, swell and reflected waves at Penlee Point and tapped at my GPS for a bearing on the Eddystone…precisely ten miles offshore.

I could see the lighthouse as a tiny stick on the horizon.

It wasn’t long before I was lost in the wildlife. A Gannet or two cruised overhead. A Great Northern Diver flew past, shortly followed by a more slender and greyish diver…a Red-throat. These birds are not at all remarkable and completely overlooked by non-birders but to an ornithologist they are very special as they are big migrants and in their summer plumage are arguably the most beautifully-marked British birds.

A Sandwich Tern ‘kirricked’ nearby…the sound of spring along the coast.

Next up were Manx Shearwaters…loads of them. They were to be my constant companion for the next nine hours, twisting and turning so close to the surface their wingtips occasional flick the water.

I was hoping for fins, of course, but didn’t expect to see a pod of five Common Dolphins race past so early on in the trip. I hoped this would set the tone for the day but they were the only big sea creatures I saw all day. It’s amazing how often this happens…initial action and then nothing. It must be the early morning effect.

I dug in to a steady rhythm and enjoyed the Shearwaters. They are masters at exploiting the energy of the waves, often ‘surfing’ along the face of the swells using the updraught created by the advancing mass of water.

A bit of early-morning light wind abated to nothing and the sea surface became completely smooth. These are my favourite paddling conditions and when far offshore anything can happen. I could hear the constant yapping cackle of Guillemots and Razorbills that were dotted about on the surface, and the occasional surprisingly loud smack of a Gannet hitting the water at speed.

Unfortunately I could also hear the tractor-like drone of scallopers for an hour at a time as they flogged past unbelievably slowly dragging heavy trawls behind them. I could still hear the thud of the engines when they were out of sight over the horizon.

I swerved off my course to investigate a circling mass of shearwaters, expecting a porpoise or dolphin to be herding fish below, but alas there was none.

For the next three hours nothing remarkable occurred although the lighthouse seemed to stop getting closer. I am very familiar with this phenomenon from my previous 22 trips out to the Eddy and I am always pleased to have my GPS handy to check that I am still actually moving.

I could see the swells sloshing about at the base of the lighthouse and its adjacent stump from afar, plus a dozen private fishing boats dotted about over the reef. This detracts somewhat from the wilderness feel but are handy just in case something goes appallingly wrong.

My plan was to arrive at Eddy at 1100. I passed the lighthouse at 1101. How nerdy is that!

My anticipated prolonged coffee and Victoria sponge break didn’t materialise because the sea was very lumpy over the reef…a confusion of swell and current which are always magnified in these sort of exposed places. It’s very lucky there was no wind…even a light blow would have made me feel very uneasy and very small.

So I headed back towards the coast to stop in the solitude of the smooth sea after a mile or two. However the break never really came. I heard the enormous blast of the foghorn of a distant ship and started to worry about an approaching bank of mist. The day was hazy and fog was indeed forecast for the next day…maybe it was coming earlier.

I have been enveloped before whilst paddling offshore. Seeing a wall of fog like the edge of a duvet approaching is an unsettling sight. You become completely disorientated very quickly and although I could still navigate with my GPS doubts start to creep in about whether you have entered the correct coordinates and whether the batteries will run out.

I REALLY didn’t want to be fog-bound ten miles offshore, so kept on going.

Not having a break on a long trip is a mistake I keep repeating. Your muscles need a break. As fatigue started to bite I glanced at my GPS to see how far I had to paddle back to the coast as it looked about three miles away…a one hour paddle. Aaargh…it was still five miles distant…I was only half-way back.

This is where dolphins or seabirds, or maybe a companion, might have helped. I had the occasional distraction of a pack of shearwaters zipping past but that was about it.

I was pleased to call in to Rame Head NCI when I came within radio range to report my intentions and was requested to call back when I was safely in the shelter of Plymouth Sound.

The sea remained flat calm and the sun continued to shine under a cloudless sky, as it had been all day. Pretty remarkable for early April, really.

I was surprised to hear the titter of migrating Whimbrel, another classic sound of spring along our coast. I could see just one bird at extreme range as a brown dot in the distance. They are known as May Birds but that might have to be reviewed as climate change kicks in and they move earlier. Even so, early April is exceptionally early.

After a 24.5 mile paddle and an alarmingly long 9+ hours in the kayak seat I arrived back at Cawsand, tucked away in a scenic corner of Plymouth Sound. It was an extraordinary scene with the beach packed with Easter revellers in their beach shorts.

Dressed in drysuit I was very much an anomaly, although the temperature just above the chilly 10 degrees sea was very different to the 20 degrees on the beach.

The 500 yard uphill jaunt back to the car using my kayak trolley gave my redundant legs something to think about. Lucky I didn’t twang something.

A great adventure to an iconic destination, but I think I’ll leave the next trip till t-shirt, and whale, time in high summer.

It’s a huge pop-up lake.

I clocked up nearly fifty miles across the floods of Somerset during the great deluge of January and February. The vast area of water was not only extraordinary from a geographical, hydrological and kayaking point of view, it’s extraordinary ornithologically* as well.

(*two words, thirteen syllables…wowzer, I’m really getting the hang of this)

My first trip at the end of January was astonishing because of the number of Lapwing present. They are one of my favourite birds with an improbable plume and a voice with a hint of melancholy that transports me back to freezing days of birdwatching long, long ago when I was a skinny nerd.

As I paddled around I could hear those mournful mewing call more or less constantly for the best part of four hours. There were many thousands of birds, possibly into five figures.

At one stage I could see over two thousand in the air at once, in several flocks disappearing off into the far distance.

Interestingly on my last visit the Lapwing numbers had fallen to a few hundred. So why were there such vast flocks first time? It’s because Lapwing undertake large-scale harsh weather movements to avoid frozen ground where they can’t feed. At the end of January the near continent as well as the north of England and Scotland, was frozen solid. The only place the mild SW wind was winning against the freezing easterly was SW England, so all the Lapwing came here. I bet they were thrilled to find such a huge impromptu lake.

Between my visits their usual wintering area must have thawed out so they wasted no time in heading back…possibly somewhere in the UK possibly back to the continent.

Fellow waders around the lake were a couple of dozen Golden Plover flying over, a few Curlew, Snipe and I heard, but didn’t see, the fluting of a Green Sandpiper.

The large flocks didn’t go unnoticed by birds of prey, which caused clouds of Lapwing to take to the air. Marsh Harriers were the usual culprit…I must have seen four or five different individuals. Their return to Somerset is a monster conservation success story and it was a joy to watch them drift over with their easy, floaty flight. I parked my kayak in a patch of rushes in the hope of a really close view…with moderate success.

Also keeping a close watch on things with a VERY beady eye were a Peregrine or two…

…and I also saw a Merlin, shaped like a miniature Peregrine, dash past a couple of times.

A white-looking bird of prey perched on a bush far in the far distance encouraged me to flog into the teeth of a headwind through shallow water to have a look. It turned out to be an unusually pale-coloured Buzzard. It was snuggled up close to it’s mate which was sporting a more conventional plumage…and which I initially didn’t notice.

This pic nicely highlights the notoriously variable plumage of Buzzards and also a feature of birds of prey in general. The males are significantly smaller than the females. The white one is male, the brown is female.

The French have got the name spot on: ‘Buse Variable’

One area of the lake contained a large number of ducks, geese and swans. The swans were surprisingly wary and I checked them for yellow beaks using my camera zoom but none were Whoopers, the genuinely wild swans that migrate here in small numbers from Iceland/Greenland. These were just spooky Mutes.

The regulation Canada Geese were joined by a honking skein of Greylags. This species have recently taken a leaf out of the Canada Goose book and decided to become sedentary and opt for the easy life down south. They used to be a more wild and migratory species but many have decided to stay put.

A skein of geese is always an impressive sight, whatever the breed.

They are great to watch from a kayak…a tremendous carbon-zero air display.

There were a couple of Egyptian Geese around as well, also feral.

Judging by the whistles the majority of wild ducks were mainly Wigeon, but when they flew over I was pleased to see the characteristic hefty beak of a handful of Shoveler, and even more pleased to see the graceful elongated shape of a couple of Pintail…the drakes are really beautifully marked with sweeping lines.

One visit to the levels was with Dave and we set up a tortuous kayak-slalom competition involving going through a few gates. It’s the kayak equivalent of the Super G Olympic ski race, and although very entertaining was possibly not as adrenaline-fuelled. Or skilful.

During my last levels paddling I heard a loud trumpeting call which I hadn’t heard for a long, long time. In fact it transported me back to a misty morning nearly four decades ago in the foothills of the mountains of eastern Zaire when Becky and I were captivated by a flight of Crowned Cranes pitching in to a waterlogged meadow.

These weren’t as smart as Crowned Cranes, but they were bigger…so even more stately.

Common Cranes!

They were far away across the floodwater, but circling ever closer. I tucked in behind a hawthorn bush and as I peered out through the thicket another trio of Cranes suddenly appeared more or less over my head, trumpeting loudly. Superb, my first ever kayak-seen Cranes.

These magnificent birds will no doubt be part of a reintroduction programme in the area of the Somerset Levels which seems to be very successful. It certainly appeared that way because I saw seven!

The sight and sound of these wonderful birds is quite sensational and it stirs the soul. It is entirely appropriate that they have returned to their home in the wetlands, having been absent from the UK for 400 years.

Sunday was a day that will be etched on our memory for a very long time. We had expected to be on the water for about three hours, so hadn’t anticipated it would turn into a six and-a-half hour adventure of epic proportions. It was lucky I brought along my emergency supply of Digestives.

Will, Isabelle (The Dolphin Lady) and I were afloat in our kayaks early, as usual. Early is always good when it comes to wildlife-spotting. It also means you can bag your favourite space in the carpark.

We had hardly got up to speed when a gang of circling Gannets were visible in the distance…over a pod of dolphins or porpoises for certain.

Sure enough there were fins below…Common Dolphins!

A scattered pod of 20-30 were feeding at a leisurely sort of pace centred on the swirling water off the headland where the tidal currents meet.

As usual they came over to check us out but paid only transient interest…they were more interested in looking for their breakfast.

Fellow kayaker Steve was soon engrossed in the thick of the action. A grandiose natural wonder backed by grandiose Devon coastal scenery. What a way to spend a March Sunday morning!

We were lured offshore by a breakaway group of dolphins who were just milling about, probably just having a chat.

As always we were careful not to disturb or spook them, but as usual the dolphins just got on with what they were doing as we floated about nearby. There can be no comparison between the impact footprint of a kayak, which is completely silent and moves at walking speed and a craft with an engine, for example, a jetski.

The jetskis today fortunately failed to spot our dolphins but did cause a stampede of Guillemots from their nesting ledges when they, the jetskis, sped through the protected area. Groan.

A mile offshore we were surrounded by silence apart from the blows of dolphins.

After our own relaxed breakfast and coffee break we were contemplating heading for home, but the wind had dropped away completely and the warmth and blue skies delayed our departure…shall we just have one more look along the coast???

Note: just received a pic from Will of The Lone Kayaker in action…attempting, unsuccessfully to grab a few underwater shots with Gopro.

What happened next is fairly typical and is why my kayaking mantra is ‘paddle the extra mile’. It always seems to pay off. Far ahead we glimpsed the flash of a fin in the sun. So we paddled an extra half-mile further to enjoy a couple of Porpoises puffing away merrily in their very unobtrusive manner. Rolling at the surface with hardly as much as a ripple.

Further on still, a few more glints as another clutch of fins caught the sun. So of course we had to investigate and arrived on scene just as a pod of 30 Common Dolphins had herded together a baitball of Pilchards…sorry…Cornish Sardines*…and were busy piling in to the tight shoal of fish.

(*Pilchards were rebranded as Cornish Sardines in 1990s to improve customer appeal)

For the next hour the three of us were completely mesmerised. No coherent words passed between us, just a few gasps of amazement and some garbled blurts. The pilchard ball swerved about while the dolphins circled and swirled all around, including a few very photo-friendly flypasts for their kayak-based admirers.

The pilchards scattered as the dolphins powered into them.

The activity at the surface attracted an entourage of feathered opportunists. The local gulls loitered overhead whilst Guillemots, Razorbills, Shags and a Cormorant dived form the surface.

All of these birds are looking at their absolute finest at this time of year…

The Razorbills in their immaculate black-and-white:

Shags with their teddy-boy quiff…

Cormorants with their dusting of snow…

When the feeding frenzy fizzled out we dragged ourselves away. I was escorted back across the smooth green water by a pair of very engaging dolphins:

Half-an-hour later, unbelievably, it all kicked off again. Only this time there were even more dolphins, the baitball of pilchards was even bigger, and the intensity of feeding activity was even greater.

The three of us didn’t just have the best seats right in front of the stage, we became part of the performance as the small fish attempted to take refuge beneath our kayaks. That meant the dolphins had to come and chase them out!

It was another hour of complete absorption…possibly two.

Every so often a great bubble of water would emerge from below. This was undoubtedly a deliberate effort by the dolphins to confuse the fish. It’s not quite as co-ordinated as bubble-netting by Humpbacks, but a good effort nonetheless.

Interestingly, out of the estimated 50-60 dolphins we observed today, there were no small calves. I didn’t see any really big ones, so probably no adult males either. These seemed to be mostly older juveniles with just a handful of mother/older calf pairs.

Two dolphins were recognisable by unique markings. One had a distinct white ‘brow’ across the bridge of its beak:

Here’s a head-on perspective:

A second dolphin had quite a scar behind the dorsal fin where a chunk of flesh had been eroded away…by a boat propeller or pressure from entrapment in a net??

Incredibly, by sheer chance, Will took a photo of the same dolphin and has christened it ‘Notchy’.

We will be looking out for Whitebrow and Notchy during our next dolphin-watching trips.

Eventually the action fizzled out and we took the opportunity to head back to the beach before something else kicked off.

What a day!

Boscawen Park is a great kayak launch site in Truro, just a mile from the capital of Cornwall’s spectacular cathedral. It provides a great view up the estuary with the cathedral prominent at the end.

A slipway is located conveniently on the edge of the carpark, and if you use it more than about two hours either side of high tide slip is what you are going to do, on the estuarine mud. Also if you are planning to stay more than four hours the car park charge will have you grinding your teeth in disgruntlement.

Your scowl will slowly wear off as you are whisked with the outgoing (hopefully) tide through the twists and turns of the Truro River Estuary. Both banks are clad in deciduous woodland…in fact that is the only natural scenery to see for the next hour. Apart from the water of course. It’s all a tremendous natural detox.

A couple of weeks ago I took a ride on the tide all the way down to the middle of Carrick Roads, the natural harbour leading down to Falmouth. A 20 mile there-and-back trip. I wasn’t in any hurry because I had eight hours before the slipway was sludge-free again, so it was all very relaxing.

Although the sky was largely grey…again…and the entire vista was monochrome shades of grey or brown, there was the occasional shaft of sunlight accompanied by a sniff of warmth which had the effect of recharging my batteries.

The only large marine creature I encountered was a Grey Seal hauled out onto a mooring buoy, looking very content and restful as they usually do.

The main focus of wildlife interest was birds in the upper estuary.

Cormorants, which are generally not particularly attractive birds and have a bit of a Jurassic jizz, make a real effort to impress in the early spring. This one which flew past me like a torpedo-bomber just a few feet away was maybe the most snappy-looking I had ever seen.

Large numbers of migratory birds probe the acres of gloopy mud that are exposed at low tide in the upper estuaries of the Truro and Fal rivers. I heard the other day that each cubic metre of mud contains the energy equivalent, in writhing invertebrates, of fifteen Mars Bars.

I’m actually surprised it’s not more than that. Maybe they meant Mars Bar Duos.

Anyway, a kayak is a great way to enjoy the huge variety of birds that travel a very long way from their breeding grounds in the far north to spend the winter here.

The trick is to allow the gentle movement of the tide to carry you along so that you don’t need to move a muscle and the birds treat you like another piece of passing driftwood.

I’m a big champion of the often-overlooked smaller waders, such as Dunlin…

and the restless tail-bobbing Common Sandpiper.

But of course I do love the large and gangly Black-tailed Godwits with their enormously long beak. They go round in a large gang so are very striking, even more so with their black-and -white markings on their wings when they take flight.

A couple of ‘Blackwits’ were morphing into their orangey-buff breeding plumage outfits, providing a welcome change from the subdued winter dullness.

The best was still to come, in fact it happened right at the end of my long day in the kayak…seat right beneath the cathedral in the centre of Truro!

I was enjoying close up views of a couple of ‘shanks’ as I floated silently past…both Redshank and Greenshank. They are clearly used to the sight of humans here with a superstore and shops right beside the river, so they are less spooky.

I was just about to turn around as the last twist of the mud-lined creek led beneath an unwelcoming-looking tunnel below the main road, when I saw a more slender-looking Redshank striding elegantly along the shoreline.

Hang on…its legs aren’t orange, they’re yellow. It’s a blinking Lesser Yellowlegs!

It was a very lost Lesser Yellowlegs, because these waders breed in Canada and migrate to South America for the winter. This one must have got hooked up in an Atlantic storm and fortunately found landfall in Cornwall, having somehow stayed airborne across the entire Atlantic.

Not surprisingly, only a few end up in the UK and they are listed as scarce here.

This is my first sighting of Lesser Yellowlegs in UK. I was actually aware of it’s presence from the Internet but of course I wanted to see it from the seat of my kayak, which presents problems with tide and weather planning.

Such difficulties, which frequently result in failure, are all part of the fun of what I love to do.

I have had the great fortune of enjoying two remarkable wildlife spectacles during the last week…one nearly twenty miles up a twisting tidal creek, the other in the open sea off a Devon headland.

This perfectly showcases the variety of pulse-racing creatures that it is possible to see from a kayak in SW England, as well as the suitability of such an insubstantial little craft for providing the best imaginable front row seat for the performance.

Both were so close I didn’t dare to, and probably couldn’t, breathe. Neither resulted in any disturbance to the behaviour of the creatures concerned.

Quite the opposite in fact. For one of the creatures we got the impression we made its day.

So all the boxes for a very satisfactory couple of encounters were ticked and the considerable effort of planning trips and writhing into multiple layers of fleece and drysuits very much paid off.

The first involved a Common Dolphin at dawn near Torbay, but it wasn’t just any old dolphin. When Will and I drew alongside a pod of half-a-dozen dolphins a few larger individuals half-heartedly rode our modest bow-wave but weren’t really that enthusiastic. However when a much smaller calf appeared it certainly was enthusiastic, zig-zagging about between our kayaks at top speed, dashing about like crazy.

We were left pondering who was enjoying themselves more.

This little calf had an unusual smoky line across the buff patch on its flank so hopefully we will recognise it if we meet again sometime. If we don’t see the marking, we will certainly recognise its behaviour.

Incidentally, during the same trip it was a bit of a surprise to see this seal resting on the beam of a pontoon in the harbour about eight feet above water level…was it prepared to take the plunge or was it going to wait five or six hours for the tide to come back in?

The second encounter was about as far up a Cornish creek as you can get. Although not quite at the tidal limit I was paddling in fresh water because the river was winning out against the incoming sea.It was still an estuary though, technically.

A very slight movement through the willow trees on the bank caught my eye…A beaver…I froze and drifted to a stop as I felt I was right on the edge of its detection limit.

Fortunately I hadn’t been rumbled and it was quite happy, busily munching its way through the bark of a willow branch.

This was a very large beaver, possibly the biggest I have yet seen of the fifty or so sightings I have had around Devon and Cornwall over the last five years or so. It looked to be about the size of a Springer Spaniel, so 20-25kgs. Eurasian Beavers are actually the second biggest rodent in the world, pipped only by the South American Capybara, although their seems to be some debate as to whether or not they are bigger than their North American cousins.

I watched this VERY busy beaver stripping the willow bark and then swimming urgently downstream to another lush looking tangle of willows. I have noticed before that these beavers seem to be inherently shy and prefer to feed in the middle of bush rather than out in the open. Very wise if there is an eagle sitting nearby…more likely in the case of Canada than Cornwall!

Suddenly it was time for the beaver to head home…it was after all 0820 so way past its bedtime.

I followed it with my camera as it swam downstream with the current and I could see its nose moving up and down…it had scented something and that something was probably me.

To my amazement it abruptly U-turned in the middle of the river and swam right past the front of my kayak, just a few feet away. I was expecting the thwack of a big flat tail slapping the water in alarm but it never came…the beaver just kept on going until it vanished into the bushes…and I could draw a huge intake of breath!

Two very good reasons why kayaking is the way to go.