A flavour of Flotta

Whilst tourist season in Orkney never quite leaves us, as we reach May things are beginning to ramp up after the Winter nadir. Cruise ships are visiting again, the island's coaches are busy ferrying holiday-makers to the Neolithic sweet spots or 21st Century craft shops (gin, jewellery, textiles and whisky) and there are walks to be recce'd for my partner's wildlife guiding business. Of these latter things, one such was a trip to Flotta, an island at the southern end of Scapa Flow which, upon arrival, is dominated by the view of an oil terminal. I suspect that this puts off folk from visiting, locals and tourists alike, unless they have a flare for miles of overhead piping and large oil tanks.

Behind all the fossil fuel infrastructure lies a peaceful, gentle landscape with less than 100 residents and lots of wildlife. It's a bit of a secret gem.

The waters of Scapa Flow were flat calm for the short ferry crossing from Houton on the Orkney Mainland. We sailed by dozens of Great Northern Divers, who are congregating in preparation for their northwards migration to breed.

Once on Flotta and beyond the immediate environs of the oil terminal, the single track road, heading uphill, passes between two small plantations of mixed conifers and broad-leaved trees. Our ears were serenaded by birdsong in stereo as Robins, Wrens, Goldcrests and Willow Warblers loudly competed across the space between the two woodlands. The resulting reverie was only broken when a Buzzard broke cover from a high branch and was hotly pursued into the distance by a pair of grumpy Ravens.

Heading across the island, the road meanders between pastures, some containing cattle or sheep, as well as numerous Lapwings, Meadow Pipits and Skylarks. The male Lapwings were displaying with aerobatic gusto, their 'pee wit' calls and thrumming wingbeats impressing us, if not the local female Lapwings.

By a sheltered bay, on the south side of the island, is the kirk. The dry stane dyke of the church yard was festooned with a healthy population of lichen, and footed by a row of Dandelions, left unmown by a perceptive groundsperson, one who knows that bees need all the help they can get at this time of year.

From the kirk, we picked up a coastal path, passing our first sighting of Lady's Smock (or Cuckooflower) for 2022, before we paused to gaze across Kirk Bay, with its Eider ducks, a Shelduck and several Oystercatchers.

Whilst taking a short break on the beach, we listened to the seals calling from a neighbouring island and then beachcombed for a while. It was pleasant to not be worrying about plastic pollution after the several beach cleans we had been part of during the week of Bag the Bruck in April. Our haul consisted of some rounded fragments of sea glass and the egg case of a Small-spotted Catshark.

Later, whilst checking the identification of the egg case online, I realised that this fish used to be known as Lesser-spotted Dogfish, although if in the late 1970s you had double Biology on a Friday morning, they were easy to spot as that's what you were dissecting. Apologies for any formaldehyde flashbacks that this inspires.

Heading along the coastal path, the clifftop vegetation was mainly limited to rough grasses and Creeping Willow, the latter providing pollen and nectar for umpteen White-tailed Bumblebees and Common Carder Bees. Until more wildflowers bloom in a week or two, it's a lean time for pollinators. Also from the path, we watched Guillemots, Razorbills, Puffins and Tysties close inshore or on ledges of the cliff face.

Reaching Stanger Head, with its derelict 20th Century military structures, our ears were assailed by a forlorn, eerie noise. Three male Snipe were drumming overhead, soaring and swooping in their breeding display flights. The air passing over their tail feathers during the swoops produced rippling waves of sound which overlapped each other and made for an enthralling spectacle. On the adjacent moorland, we startled a Red Grouse, and moments later spotted the first of several Swallows, not long returned from Africa.

We stopped for lunch on a clifftop overlooking Hoxa Sound, so that we could scan for any fins which might be passing by. Eventually, the keenest pair of eyes (not mine!) spotted a pair of Harbour porpoises off the coast of South Ronaldsay. I had my moment though, when checking a large bird flying overhead, which turned out to be a White-tailed Eagle.

As we walked back towards the pier, Curlews and Snipe continued to bubble and drum respectively, and then another sound brought us up short. The three of us immediately stopped, looked at each other, then in chorus gasped "Corncrake!" Although we thought it was early for this species to have returned for the Summer and be holding a territory, there was no mistaking the repeated 'credit card on a comb' sound of 'crex crex'. We found a nearby picnic bench and waited in case it called again. It did, just the once, but enough for us to be sure we hadn't imagined it the first time.

Passing by the garden of a house en route led to another incongruous sight and sound. From within a large Olearia bush came the calls of several birds, which we struggled to place immediately. Then one of them flew out and landed on top of the shrub, revealing itself to be a male Reed Bunting. Several more buntings came and went, seemingly preferring this vegetation to the surrounding wet pastures with their rushes and sedges.

The ferry trip back to Houton was less pleasant than the morning sailing, as it was into a cold wind. However, that same wind made it difficult for a passing Grey Heron to make swift progress, so despite the overcast conditions and a moving deck, I was able to take a few photographs of it. 

I think our bird list for the day was more than 50 species, despite not finding a few things which we might normally expect to see in such habitats. With more birds due to return for the Summer, and the dragonfly flight season not far away, I am already looking forward to my next trip to Flotta.