With nature and a camera

Chapter II. The birds and fowlers of St Kilda

The war of waters

As I was anxious to procure a good picture of the war of waters in the gap I have just mentioned between St Kilda and the Doon, it was arranged that my brother and I should walk over there one afternoon to take a photograph, and that a boat should afterwards pick us up and convey us to the latter island. We found it impossible to make a picture on account of the showers of fine spray which were being driven through the defile, blurring the lens of our camera the moment it was exposed.

In a little while the boat hove in sight, and we took off our boots and descended the slippery rock to embark. Seeing a chance of some fun with big Finlay McQuien, who turned out to be one of the rowers, I tied my boots together by the laces, and having no fear of their sinking on account of one of them being composed largely of cork - a necessity caused by an early climbing accident - I purposely threw them short of where he stood in the bows of the boat ready to make a catch, and they fell with a splash into the sea. Poor McQuien! I shall never forget his look of alarm at what he supposed to be a very awkward accident, nor his astonishment when he saw the cork boot float and support its companion in the water. When he recovered them he squeezed the former, rolled up the whites of his eyes, and exclaimed, "Vary khood, vary khood!"

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After a deal of difficulty we managed to jump into the boat, which was jigging about like a cork in a whirlpool on account of a heavy ground swell and the rush of a current which came from a cave close by. In a few minutes we landed on the Doon, and hauled our craft high and dry upon a rock, which was almost as steep as the roof of a house.

We climbed to the top of the island, and then along its narrow serrated ridge until we came to a place where Finlay McQuien and his companion could show us an example of their skill with the fowling rod. My brother descended to the very brink of an awful precipice, and getting his camera into such a position as to command a view of a number of Fulmar Petrels sitting on a narrow ledge of rock, waited for the fowlers to descend. Finlay Gillies tied a rope round the body of McQuien, who stealthily crept down, rod in hand, until he came within reach of the unsuspecting birds, when he quietly pushed the instrument forward till the open noose at the end was just in front of the head of the one he had selected for his victim. By a dexterous twist of the wrist the fatal circle of horse-hair and Gannet quills fell round the neck of the Fulmar, which instantly spread out its wings and sprang forward, only to tighten the noose, and by its fluttering frighten all its companions away. As the bird was being brought up the picture below was taken. The two small figures on the top of the high pinnacle of rock in the illustration represent our friend Mr John Young and myself, who were watching the sport from this Dantesque coign of vantage.

In retracing our steps along the summit of the island we discovered a Forked-Tailed Petrel's burrow containing several nests. We examined two of these, and found that whilst one contained quite a liberal lining of dead grass, the other had no materials whatever in it; the egg being simply deposited on the bare peat earth.

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Finlay McQuien catching fulmars

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After photographing a Manx Shearwater's nesting hole we descended to our boat. Whilst the men got it into the sea my brother thought he could negotiate the steep and slippery rock running down to the water's edge alone, but he had not gone far before he fell as suddenly as if he had been walking on an inclined plain of ice, and shot down towards the ocean at a terrific pace with his camera, which he had held under his arm, after him. The latter struck against a small projection of rock and stopped, but its owner continued his wild career until he came to a kind of natural basin full of water, just left by the receding tide. Here he stopped all in a heap with considerable abruptness and a big splash. I could not help laughing when I saw him strike out, under the impression that he had actually landed in Village Bay. He scrambled cautiously back to his camera on his hands and knees, and after carefully examining the apparatus for hurts, he told me that the dizzying effect of the fall, and his quick transition seawards, made him confident on feeling the cold water that he had arrived in the ocean, and he began to strike out in order that lie might get away from the rocks and the surf and swim towards the place where the boat was being launched.

Satisfied with our adventure we remained where we were until McQuien came along to help us down to the place of embarkation.