Our Orcadian Saga (Part 2) – Seabirds, Sea Creatures and South to the Caledonian Forest

Somewhat to my surprise, Orkney looked nothing like the highlands or the Western Isles I have visited. Gone are the barren moors, bens and glens, replaced by gentle rises and sweeping grassland. Cows instead of deer.

One massive exception we saw was the west coast of the Mainland (the main Orkney isle). The sloping grass gives way to sheer cliffs and raging waves. While not as high as the cliffs off Hoy, they are still thrilling and simply teeming with seabird life. Each day on Orkney we would choose a spot by the coast and go for a trek.  Across wide, arching beaches, then up headlands and along paths astride the cliffs, holding the kids hands tight.

The coast was full of features I recall from geography at school. Stacks, arches and blowholes. From semi-safe spots, we would sit and pass the binoculars around, spotting birds on cliffs stained white by their excrement, swirling on the wind and perched on the waves. Guillemots, kittiwakes, razorbills, shags, skuas, gannets, you name it. Not to be forgotten were the birds of the low shoreline and backing marshes – oystercatchers, redshanks, turnstones and more. These were great, but what we really wanted to see were puffins…

PATIENCE AND LUCK

Try as we might, we could not sight these evocative little birds. Cliff after cliff showed up many wonderful things, but no puffins. My daughter was equally excited by the semi-tame rabbits on a cliff top, but for the rest of us puffins was the main aim.

Puffins play a special role in British culture, being one of the more extravagant animals left on our dilapidated islands, and featuring in as diverse mediums as book publishers, cartoons and confectionary. I had therefore wanted to see one since I was a kid. It seemed our best opportunity was passing us by, until… on our final afternoon a passer-by on a cliff walk half way down the west coast of the Mainland, tipped us off that they had seen puffins on the Brough of Bursay.

The Brough of Bursay is a small island off the north-west tip of the Mainland, accessible by foot only at low tide. I checked the tide times and, as luck would have it, the tide was going out. I rang the rest of the family and arranged to meet them there asap.

Having transversed the narrow path to the Brough through the rock pools, we passed through the remains of a Viking settlement, over a fence and up a steep hill. 

Thanks Uncle Phil

We headed straight for the high cliffs on the north side. Only half hoping, we approached a vertical corrugation on the cliff wall and peered out to a jutting out portion of cliff. I could not believe my eyes. 

There was a puffin, and another. So much smaller than I had expected (barely bigger than my hand), but intensely charismatic. A pair were perched on a narrow ledge. One flew off, and as I followed its path, I saw another puffin flying in.

All in all, I think we saw at least 6. We lay there with the kids and cousins, giggling with excitement.

SEALS AND A CREATURE CARCASS

The seabirds were marvellous, but do not hog all the rights to cool wildlife on these isles. Driving around the island, we were fortunate to see seals on multiple occasions. Both grey and harbour seals fish of the coast and lounge around on beaches. The best place we found to spot them was just off the “main” Stromness to Kirkwall road, at the southern edge of the Loch of Stenness. Mildly inquisitive, they would roll over, or pop their heads out the water on seeing us.

Perhaps the most remarkable wildlife we saw was not even alive. Walking by a beach on the west coast, I spotted a large log type shape on the shore that did not look quite right. As we walked closer, I could not work out what it was, until a bad smell and closer inspection gave it away. It was a carcass of small whale. It looked most peculiar and, after doing some research, I found out that it was the mysterious Cuvier’s beaked whale. Living in the deeps of the far north and rarely ever seen, one washed up here was a stark reminder that leave these isles on the wrong heading and all you get is wild ocean for league upon league.

SCUBA SCAPA

Being a keen diver, I wanted to explore Orkney’s waters, as well as its shores, and I was lucky enough to do just that. The simply fantastic Scapa Scuba (who incidentally have the coolest dive shop I have ever seen –  a 100 year old bright red lifeboat station), took me to experience my fist ever dry-suit dives on the blockships that guard the eastern approaches to Scapa Flow.

An array of ships were sunk to prevent the Germans from attacking this key Royal Navy base in the two world wars. Sadly, they did not fully do their job, with U47 slipping through in October 1939, and sinking the HMS Royal Oak, with the loss of over 800 hands.

The blockships lie in shallow water between the small islands that run between the Mainland and South Ronaldsay. They have broken up over the years and been enveloped in wildlife. This make an excellent place to dive.

Spotting another seal as we pulled up in the van by a bridge and small inlet, we took our time prepping for the dive. I received great instruction in how to put on the cumbersome dry-suit and what to expect when in the water. We slipped into the shallows, I put my head under and received an immediate ice-cream headache for my sins. The water was all of 7 degrees C and made me grimace. I though got used to it soon enough and opened my eyes to a new world.

Thick sea weed and kelp, giant crabs, fish I had never seen before and huge numbers of starfish. The water clarity was good. I got used to the buoyancy of the dry-suit sooner than expected and followed the bottom as it descended towards great lumps of seaweed strewn metal. It was a thrilling sight.

In all I spent over an hour exploring the wrecks spread over two dives. While heavily broken up, many parts of the structure were still evident. There were great swim-throughs and many a sea creature surprise. A large lobster beneath the wreckage and, strangely most exciting for me, a sizeable cod scared off.

It was a brilliant experience. I got on really well with the dive school guys. They were happy enough with my intro to dry-suit diving for me to join them on the deep dives to what remains of the scuttled Imperial High Seas Fleet (see here), one of the top dive sights in the world. I could hardly contain my excitement. The only problem was weather and a lack of availability. Each day I waited with my fingers crossed. The latter freed up, but not the former. The sea gods were not with me, throwing up prohibitive wind and waves. Yet another reason to return to these wonderful islands.

SINCLAIRS AND SCOTCH

All over the Orkney were reminders of our ancestral link. The name Sinclair is everywhere. What best bought it home though, was finding the small farm house where my great-grandparents lived before departing for Australia. Thanks to my Uncle Peter’s research and careful instructions, we found the place on the eastern side of Scapa bay, round a sharp bend on the Old Scapa Road. After a week on Orkney, it no longer felt strange that my forebears had lived here for centuries, but seeing the house brought with it some sadness for what is gone.

As the mists rolled in, I thought of what a difficult life it must have been through the long, cold, dark winters. We found hints of how they may have survived. Alongside the old pubs, there is more than the Orcadians fair share of alcohol production. Adding to the old whisky distilleries and brewery, are  newer gin distilleries. I cannot recommend highly enough Orkney Gin Company’s Old Tom. Never since has our house been without it.

A HIGHLAND GEM

I was genuinely sad to leave. We had had a wonderful time. Adding to all the fantastic sites, adventures and wildlife, was quality time with my family. Seventeen of us had made the mini pilgrimage to Orkney on the beckoning of my Uncle Peter. Without him I am not sure I would have ever have made it, which would have being a crying shame.

On the boat back to Scrabster and the Scottish mainland, we once again passed the intimidating heights of the cliffs of Hoy, simply teeming with wildlife. Alas, we did not see the orcas. 

The road back south was a beautiful as before, but our stop over was a bit extra special – Glen Affric. Nestled to the west of Loch Ness, in the middle of the highlands, it is one of the last strongholds of the ancient Caledonian forest, giving it a very different feel to the barren lands elsewhere. 

This did not happen by accident. It is a wonderful example of rewilding and the potential it holds. Starting a quarter of a century ago, Trees for Life started installing fencing to keep out deer (who eat the saplings) and then augmented this with planting. Scots Pine have made a comeback. Instead of bare rock and gorse, there are glorious forests (find out more here). We stayed a night by the glen, trekking either side of the dark. 

One trek was deep into a dark, mature forest. We spotted pine marten scat (it is sad how excited I was) and came upon a waterfall through the trees. It was magnificent.

The other was into the heart of the glen. We followed paths down through wooded hills, across banks of ragged granite and down to the rushing water. 

At a high point, the whole glen opened up before us. It was spectacular. It felt like that so rare thing in the UK, wilderness. I was so glad to be able to take my children to such a place. So glad in fact, that it deserves a montage...

All too soon, we were driving south again and then along Loch Ness to Inverness and our flight home. As the flight took off I took with me a stronger affiliation with the country of both my grandfathers.

Our Orcadian Saga (Part 1) – A Layer Cake of Historical Riches

I have deep Orcadian roots, yet before this trip I had never so much as stepped foot on the Orkney isles. Why, you may ask? Well, the location is part of it...

Looking at a globe, you have to trace your finger to the furthest north-western reaches of Eurasia, jump across the Channel to Britain, keep going north until England gives way to Scotland and Scotland gives way to the ocean. There, across one of the most treacherous stretches of water on the planet, you find the tiny Orkney archipelago.

The inspiration for this trip lay with my Uncle Peter. A great man, now sorely missed, who convinced and cajoled his close family up to the land of our forebears in May 2018. All in all, 17 of us made the pilgrimage under his instruction and I can’t thank him enough for it. Quite unexpectantly, I found one of my favourite places on earth.

TO THE NORTH

We took a flight to Inverness, jumped in a car, passed the sadness of Culloden Moor, crossed the Moray Firth and then headed up the map.

It was a beautiful road, taking us in and out from lochs to villages, forests and then back out to the  north-east drag of the coast. Passed places with names like Glen Morangie, Golspie, Helmsdale and Ramscraigs, before jutting due north and across the wind-swept moors. They were so desolate and overbearing, it took me quite by surprise.

Eventually we reached the small port of Scabster and boarded a ferry to Stromness and the “Mainland”, the largest of the islands where the majority of Orkadians reside.  

Our journey was relatively calm, but foggy. I scoured the sea around us for the resident orcas, but to no avail. I could see from the map that our ferry was to pass the island of Hoy, but I did not see it until we were up close, the fog cleared and the giant cliffs emerged. Orangey-brown, topped with green, these were the highest sea-cliffs in the UK, rising sheer out of the waves to well over a 1,000 feet. Seabirds abounded, skimming the water in flocks, swirling on the winds and then disappearing into the vastness of the cliffs.

The Old Man of Hoy did not disappoint. A nearly 500 foot sea-stack, still standing proud against the wind and waves that will eventually swallow it.

The sun set as we spotted the Mainland, cleared Hoy and then turned to port and then to starboard into the small port town of Stromness, our home for a week.

Pretty knackered, we wound our way down the small streets to our harbourside house. Kids straight to bed and then a quick peer out the window to the say goodnight to the sea before we also hit the hay. In the gloom, something caught my eye  Would you believe it, a harbour seal peaking out the water right at me, not 10 meters away. He dipped back down, then emerged a few meters further back. A final glance and he way gone. What an introduction to Orkney!

THE FAMILY ARRIVES

I am half Scottish and half of that Scottishness is Orcadian. My name is the giveaway. “Sinclair” is as Orcadian as it comes. Up until my grandfather, this had been the home of my ancestors for generation upon generation. The connection was evident from our first walk around the narrow streets of Stromness, with my surname hanging over more than one shop.

I took to the town immediately. A measure of affluence from its time as the supply stop for the Hudson Bay Company (look up Canadian history 101 if you want find out more), helped provide it with grander buildings than its size and location would forecast. Stretching across and right up to the sea, I particularly liked the selection of old pubs, the small charming museum and old bright red lifeboat station dive school.

One by one different parts of my family arrived, having made the journey by different routes, transports and paces. All was plane sailing, except for one of my sisters, whose flight refused to depart from Inverness due to bad weather. There were no such issues in Orkney, where the sun shined and the thermostat reached a shocking 20 plus degrees C on successive days (shocking as the highest ever recorded temperature is 25.6 – you have to remember the latitude is only just below the southern tip of Greenland).

This is the first time I can recall us all travelling en masse and it was rather strange, yet wonderful to all meet in a pub garden of my uncle’s choosing so far from home to plan our stay. For those new to the treasures of these isles, the real issue was how to squeeze just a portion of the highlights into our time together. There can be few such remote places in the world that cramp so much varied interest into such a small space. You have to see it to believe it, and that we did.

A TOUR THROUGH THE AGES

What, to my mind, makes Orkney so special, are the number of impressive layers of history piled on top of each other. While you can occasionally be found in a grand old city (think Palermo, Seville or, above all else, Rome), it is not what you expect on windswept, cold islands at the end of the earth (or at least Eurasia). To give you an idea, I will take a trot through time using a selection of the remarkable places we were lucky enough to visit.

STONE AGE MARVELS

Against all the odds, Orkney contains the best preserved Neolithic remains in the UK, and one of the best in Europe. There are multiple sites and more continue to be excavated every year.

I have to start with Skara Brae. Eroded and dug out of the sands of a beach on the west coast of the Mainland is a near complete Neolithic village, dating from 3100-2500 BC. It is absolutely unique in its age and remarkable state of preservation. You can literally walk around the 5,000 year old passages, looking down into the houses, complete with doors shelves and benches.

It took me by total surprise. If you are lucky, settlements of half this age leave behind base wall or foundation fragments which require serious imagination to transform in to places people actually lived, but Skara Brae required no such taxing of the mind. A 5,000 year old veil was removed.

From Skara Brae, we drove in land to the heart of the Neolithic remains. Strung along and around a narrow strip of land between the Loch of Harray and the Loch of Stenness are marvels. First we came to the Ring of Brodgar. A broad ring of standing stones some 100 m across, rising out of the gorse and surrounded by pre-historic ditch. It is a starkly beautiful place, slightly raised, separating the two lochs. The kids were more than happy, running around the track created by the feats of countless thousands of man-hours 4,000 years ago.

Passing the continued excavations at the Ness of Brodgar, we came upon Stones of Stenness. Five stones remain of an original twelve that formed one of the oldest surviving henges, a thousand years older than Stonehenge. The largest of the stones is 6 meters high, but looked even taller next to the sheep which grazed its base.

Barely a kilometre from these monoliths was perhaps the most impressive of the place we visited on the island, Maeshowe. Rising like a small, green pyramid from the flat land next to the Loch of Harray, is this 5,000 year chambered cairn.

As we approached with the guide, it became clear the scale was even bigger than it looked from afar. This was a good thing, as we had tickets to enter the burial mound and I admit I initially wondered how our whole group would fit in.

We entered through a long, low passage, flanked by large stones. It felt a bit like Indiana Jones, stooping through the tunnel to emerge into a hidden chamber at the heart of the mound. It was very exciting, expressed by wide-eye looks in the kids, illuminated by the electric light switched on within.

The chamber was large, with plenty of room to stand, constructed by concentric layers of long flat stones. As the walls raised to shoulder height, these stones edged inwards over one another to form the roof. It was a remarkable place. To think this place was built twice as far back as the Parthenon and the height of classical Greece.

To my shock there was graffiti on the walls. Not of the common, spray painted kind, but strange etchings carved into the stones. The guide explained that these were not from modern, but medieval tourists. Vikings had opened up the tombs a thousand odd years ago, no doubt took what they found in there, and left behind the largest collection of Viking runes outside of Scandinavia. The most famous is an intricate carving of a dragon, but the one that stuck to the brain was translated by the guide as “Thor and I fucked Helga”.

IRON AGE PLAYGROUND

Orkney also has its fair share of Iron Age remains. We had the pleasure of visiting the Broch of Gurness, on the edge of a bay opposite the isle of Rousay. A broch is a stone tower and in front of us was one of the best preserved brochs in all of Scotland. Still nearly 4 meters high (it is estimated to have originally been twice that height) and surrounded by numerous nooks, crannies, remains of walls and ditches, it proved the kids favourite playground on the island.

The approach to the brock only added to the wonder. For once on our trip, the famed Orkney mist had descended, adding a surreal quality to the over 2,000 year old remains. We were the only visitors and, against my better judgement, we bought the kids matching toy Viking helmets, swords and axes at the entrance. This inevitably lead to a giant mock battle through the site. Being old and mature, I jumped straight in and together had as much fun as I can recently remember.

What made it even better were the two seals popping in and out of the misty waters as we departed.

VIKING STONGHOLD

Viking remnants are scattered throughout Orkney and the blood of Orcadians. The islands were ruled by Norway for some 700 hundred years, only becoming part of Scotland in 1468 as security against the payment of a dowry.

It was ruled by such awesomely named Earls as Sigurd the Mighty and Thorfinn Skull-splitter, before Christianity took hold and, latterly, the earldom passed to the Sinclair family in the late 14th century.

The height of Viking gifts to the future, is the quite unique St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, the capital. Very distinctive, with its red and yellow alternating sandstone, it is a Romanesque wonder. While I hugely enjoyed touring around the inside, I found the circumnavigation of the outside rather less uplifting.

Looking to keep the kids entertained, I for some reason suggested they look round the graveyard for any namesakes, this being a deeply Sinclair isle and all. Finding one was fine. Two, three, four, five… twenty plus far less fun. Even worse, the kids found more than one inscription with my full name, middle name and all. That was a bit too much for me. The kids found my only semi-shock horror a little too amusing for my liking…

WORLD WAR FORTRESS

Situated between the isles of Hoy, Graemsay, Flotta, Buray, South Ronaldsay, Mainland and others, is one of the great deep sea harbours of the world – Scapa Flow.

We drove around much of its perimeter, findings remnants of what was the main fortified base of the Royal Navy in WWI and WWII. From massive gun emplacements at its westward entrance (yet another playground for the kids), via the buoy that marks the tragic resting place of HMS Royal Oak, to sunken block ships on the eastern approaches and the Italian chapel built by some of the thousands of Italian POWs that were imprisoned here in WWII. It was fascinating.

I found the trip down to the water’s edge near the Royal Oak really quite emotional. Some 833 sailors lost their lives when the aged battleship was sunk by a daring German U-boat mission at the start of WWII. Such a waste. I could see how much simply talking about it upset my father, an ex-naval man himself.

Wrong era canon, but the kids aren't picky

Looking further out, I imagined all the other ships sitting on the floor of Scapa Flow. Now largely empty, this body of water once harboured one of the largest collections of naval metal ever assembled. At the end of WWI, alongside the British ships, it became the final resting place of the Imperial German High Seas fleet. Not wanting to wait for Versailles to determine their fate, the commander ordered the fleet scuttled, sending 53 ships to the sandy depths. More on that in part two of this blog.

FAST FORWARD

For the first time in a long time, the islands are again seeing masses of massive ships. No longer battleships or longboats, but rather cruise ships. A combination of world class sites and being convenient stop on the way to Iceland, have made it the most popular cruise ship destination in the UK. While bringing increased prosperity to the island, I do so hope it is not overwhelmed. There are only so many coach loads of cruise-ship passengers that can parade around before some of the charm is lost. For now it is though safe to say that Orkney is thoroughly charming and welcoming.

This brief trawl through history and historical sites we visited is but a selection of what Orkney has to offer.  The depth and extent of its wonders amazed me and, to be honest, I fell in love with the place. 

An Abundance of Greek Wildlife with a Tiny, Perfect Surprise

Our elongated summer trip to Greece was a lifesaver after 4 intensely difficult months in UK lock-down. Alongside the food, family and sunshine, exploring the sea from a small, stony, olive tree strewn, spit of land in Evia was refreshing for the soul. At least twice a day, everyday, I took to the sea with my snorkel and explored.  Quite simply I have never seen so much wildlife in Greece.

Before we get to the water, it would be amiss to not mention the land and air.

ABOVE THE WAVES

We found a fascinating array of insects. 

Dozens of large dragonflies hovering and darting around sunset. Throbbing tzitzikes (cicadas) clinging to trees for dear life, combining to make a hypnotic noise through the heat of the day, to be replaced by the altered tones of grasshoppers at night. Whole troops of ants, ferrying their grubs from one next to the other, only to be robbed by a spider. A massive, viscous looking centipede crawling around our bedroom. Butterflies in a myriad of shapes and colours, including a monarch with fighter jet wing tips and the most perfectly camouflaged butterfly I have ever seen. 

Best of all, was a lime green praying mantis. The beauty was spotted by my kids on the ground and was watched closely as it slowly but surely used its strange, jagged gait to manourve up an olive tree.

There were birds a plenty, though very few of the song bird variety. Hundreds of swallows, swifts and martins swooped around the sky gulping down mozzies. Haggles of seagulls pointed to shoals of fish, while a heron and an egret waited to dart their sharp beaks into the water. An occasional bird of prey soared above, looking for a carcass. As always, crows and pigeons.

On that note, while it was thoroughly (if recently) dead, a dead adder on our path still made us jump back a foot. Other reptiles included a gecko scrambling up the villa wall and a tiny lizard zipping across the basketball court.

There were mammals too. While there was no repeat of the massive wild boar we had seen crossing the mountain the winter past, there were nine new semi-wild kittens in the garden, signs of hunted moles and many a bat flapping too and fro over the water.

RICHES OF THE SEA

The sea was though the real show. With the possible exception of Alonissos, I saw more fish than I have seen anywhere in the Mediterranean in both number and variety (at least 20 species).  Hanging around the rocks and Poseidon sea-grass were, to name just a few, rainbow wrasse, combers, red scorpion fish, blennys, damselfish,  weeverfish, striped bream and tiny unidentified cleaner fish. Out in the open water were serial shoals of glittery, silver gavres (I only know the Greek word), on some days a thousand strong. 

I also found hunters. Long, thin, darty, zarganes (needlefish) zipped around just under the surface, sometimes on their own, other times in groups up to forty strong. I was even lucky enough to find a couple of trigger fish. One a baby hiding behind a rock, the other mature, circling around near the surface.

Picking through the rocks by the shore, the kids and I found snails, tiny crabs and translucent shrimp. A bit deeper out were fan worms, hermit crabs, mussels on a buoy, dozens of starfish, brittle stars and a solitary large clam. Signs of life beneath the sand and rock were clear with many types of shells snagged on urchins. 

Every so often the surface would be invaded by dozens of jellyfish. I identified four different species, with the coolest being piato (fried egg jellyfish). Up to 30 cm across, with a brown, bulbous, water pumping head and small tentacles topped by bright purple dots. One of them even had translucent fish living in the tentacles, who darted into the flaps behind the head when I approached.

The ines (small stringy stingy things) were not so fun. On an ambitious morning, Christina, Dan, Nasia and I walked to the nearest village and swam 2 km back along the shore. While the sea was calm on the surface, it was teeming with ines beneath. We found patch after patch and emerged with scores of stripey small welts. It was a great swim nonetheless, but this was a reminder that we are ill equipped visitors to the sea.

Barely better equipped (given the patched up holes in the bottom), we also explored the bay from our old battered canoe. The kids equally enjoyed grabbing hold of the paddle or facing the prow as Chris or I powered away parallel to the shore. Along with moments of serenity, came paddles through swarms of jellyfish, fish springing out the water to our side and, after a near perfect ride, the absolute comedy of my eldest son falling overboard as he lost his balance waving to his Giagia. As I fished him back in, the canoe nearly capsized in one direction and then the other, before we just about managed to remedy the situation by frantically bailing water with our hands, laughing the whole while.

MOLLUSCS GALORE

Back under the waves, I spent much of my time scouring the sea-floor for molluscs. For the first week I mostly found soupies (cuttle fish). I found half a dozen or more. On two occasions, they were the first thing I saw as I dipped my mask in the water. On another, my daughter and I came across a large and a small one in alternating colours probably doing some mating ritual. The boys swam over and the ritual soon stopped. 

My favourite was a large cuttlefish I spotted on a patch of yellow sponge about 4 meters down. What looked like a slight yellow bump on the pinnacle of the sponge made me decide to dive down and, low and behold, it was a near perfectly camouflaged cuttlefish. It swiftly changed colour to black, squirted me with ink and shot off into the shallows.

Borazont at English Wikipedia

I didn't start spotting the octopus for the first few days, but, once I found the signs, I discovered them nearly every day and was able to show a number of them to the kids. From the little one that frequented the underside of the first big rock out from our path, to a massive one living in an old concrete block. 

Albert Kok at Dutch Wikipedia

I found a couple by complete accident, including on my last day diving down for a shell only to discover it was fixed onto the suckers of an octopus hiding in the sand. 

Others I found by learning to inspect rocks pecked by groups of painted combers. It appears the fish have a habit of irritating the octopus and I found at least 4 this way, sometimes not seeing the octopus until they defensively changed colour as my hand approached. Once or twice I lifted the rock above them, received a splurge of black ink for my sins and then watched them shoot off before scurrying back into another crevice and changing colour to match their new surroundings.

My eldest and I discovered probably the biggest of all, lurking 6 meters down on the sandy bottom. When I dived down he puffed up into a parachute shape and swiftly inked me. All in all we must have found a dozen plus different individuals, with the ones frequenting the same crevices being said hello to on a regular basis.

All said a plethora of life, but I have left the very best discoveries until last…

DOLPHINS EVERYWHERE

One of these has to be the dolphins and, in this case, common bottle-nose dolphins. We saw them 5 different times. Two were only short glimpses as they commuted past. Another I have already mentioned (dolphin blog). The most relaxing was sitting on the beach at the end of the day, beer in hand, watching a large pod slowly arc across the water in the distance. They even crossed the deep red reflection of the sun, scoured across the sea by ends of the sunset.

My favourite sighting was though the last. It was one of the best experiences of my life. A pod of at least 30 dolphins decided to go fishing outside our doorstep. For an hour they jumped, circled and ate. At one point they split into three distinct group, so everywhere you looked were dorsal fins and spurts of air. As soon as I saw them I sprinted to the shore (idiotically damaging my foot in the process) and swam out to join Christina and Philip (our neighbour) in the sea, while the kids stayed on the beach shouting out to the dolphins with their Giagia. 

We watched them from about 50 meters out for half an hour, begging for them to come nearer. At times a dolphin would spring out the water, with one shooting a good 2 meters straight up into the air, before re-entering with barely a ripple. What joy, for them and us.

Chris, me and a dolphin!

We could not help but be drawn nearer, moving left and right as we spotted different groupings. Suddenly, a silvery fish jumped out the water not 10 meters in front of us. Soon it was followed by a fin and a shiny curved back following in its wake. A dolphin was just there, or rather just here. We could not believe it. I think we all suddenly realised with a touch of fear that we were in the dolphins domain and at their whim. This was soon overwhelmed by exhilaration as we darted after the dolphin.

It was joined by another and, as one, they suddenly turned right towards us. Out of instinct we huddled closer together and shouted with excitement as they headed straight towards us. They were so close we could see their blow holes. 10 meters, 5 meters, 2 meters and then they dove under. I flicked down my goggles and thrust my head under the water just in time to watch them swim right under our feet, turning to their sides in unison as they did so, exposing their white underbellies.

I can only think it was an inquisitive goodbye, as we did not see another dolphin that day. They disappeared into the deep blue, leaving us feeling deliriously full of life.

AT LONG LAST

To me at least, the final discovery I will mention matched the dolphins. If a month ago you had asked me which 5 animals I most want to see before I die, this would certainly have been one of them. I have searched for them across the oceans of the world, diving and snorkelling for the best part of 20 years, yet somehow they have always alluded me. The seahorse!

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license. Attribution: © Hans Hillewaert

I had a glimmer of hope of finding one, as Christina  told me they used to see them here when she was a small kid, hanging in the shallows to the side of the paths the locals make through the rocky shallows. None of the family had though seen one for a couple of decades. That was though enough for me to spend several hours diving up and down on repeat, scouring the sea-grass and scrub for one of these delicate, perfectly camouflaged, fundamentally odd shrimp devouring creatures.

It took me two weeks. Having all but concluded there were no more to be found in these waters, I kept diving down in forlorn hope and, against all expectation, found a little beauty. It was a short-snouted seahorse. About 10 cm tall, green and almost indiscernible against its backdrop of sea-grass, I can’t believe I saw it. I was so shocked I put my hand down to the side and nearly grabbed a small red scorpion fish.  

A bit startled, I pulled my hand back up, managed to re-locate the seahorse and stared at it until my lungs ached. I surfaced, took a deep breath and plunged back down. I discovered it again and tried to take in every detail. Its thin snout, crenellated body and tightly bound gripping tail. It was fantastic. My air again ran out. I surfaced, recovered and dived back under. Nothing. I could not find it for the life of me. For all I know it could have been right in front of my eyes, but try as I might I could not locate it. I swam back to shore bursting with happiness and excitement.

FAREWELL WITH HOPE

On my final evening, as soon as the sun set, I jumped into the canoe and paddled straight out towards the dying gleam of red. When a good distance from shore, I put down the oar, crossed my legs, sipped my beer and stared out across the water. It was shimmery red and purple, with an oily gleam from the water tension. The sky was giving way from red to night, as mount Parnassos framed the distance, capped with a thin line of cloud. A perfect moment.  Content and thankful for everything we had seen, I turned to port, powered towards mount Kardili with a final burst and then, finally, turned to port again and headed for home.

Above all, I was so glad there is still such wildlife in Greece to discover, protect and, just maybe, regenerate from. Sadly, most of Greece is not so lucky, with the seas chronically depleted. I dearly hope a corner is turned and my kids’ kids get to see such sights.

To finish - some of the wildlife on the beach!