After the recent storms, calm winter sunshine had brought out the Sunday afternoon strollers and the anglers. The soporific rhythm of small, evenly spaced waves splashing gently on to the shore, followed by the rattling of pebbles dragged out in the undertow, seemed to have cast a spell on the line of fishermen, rods ready, waiting for the tide to rise.
On the cliffs, fulmars that had spent the winter at sea had returned to their nesting ledges, strengthening pair bonds with gentle clucking calls and mutual preening. Occasionally one would take flight, leaving its consort and orbiting the beach with mesmerising grace: a few shallow wing beats followed by an effortless glide that carried it half way along the shore. Then it would rise to the cliff edge on the updraught, turn and sail back. Mates cackled from their ledges as the fliers passed. Sometimes one would almost touch down, only to launch itself for another circuit, but eventually they settled on their ledges and pairs resumed preening. Only one fulmar remained in the air. We soon realised that this was a bird with a plan.
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