It was early when I set out, about six o'clock. The early morning mist had not yet lifted, and the old farm buildings were shrouded in grey. I stood at the farmyard gate and looked back. Everything was silent- not even the blackbirds nesting in the old farmhouse had begun to sing. The farm was at its most peaceful now, slightly eerie in the dawn light, echoing its long past and active days. There was dew on the short-cropped grass, and some of the rabbits were already beginning to feed beneath he old poplar by the barn. The poplar was dead- the last tree on the island, its leafless old branches were crooked, lying against the wall. The fuchsias against the eastern face were bright, their dancing red flowers in sharp contrast to the opaque browns and greys surrounding me. Similarly, the tractor stood nearby, silent in the night, blue like the pillars of the converted stables I was so familiar with.

I followed the easterly path the tractor had carved into the ground, and turned North towards the Garland Stone. The whitethroats frequenting the chicken sheds were also invisible at this time- only a solitary gull stood on the tall wooden post where I had once seen a Little owl. The gull was surveying his territory- far above me I could see the last of the dawn feed parties of lesser black-backs flying out north-west to sea.

As I walked down into North Valley, I could feel the atmosphere starting to warm, and a pink tinge begin to appear round the cloak of grey covering the sky. The bluebells had finished early this year, so the valley was green. Young bracken had grown to about a foot in height, and solitary spikes of red campion struggled to outgrow it. A the edges of the cropped paths, bright heads of ragwort took advantage of the open ground, its yellow, sun-like flowers just starting to open out. Grasses and sedges also grew tall, especially in the damper heart of the valley.

Where the stream ran down to Green Pond, I saw the willows, where by midday the air would be filled with the buzzes and rattles of the warblers. I passed over the boardwalk and stepped up onto the ancient wall along which the path ran. At this time of day there was little to see, but at warmer times it was necessary to watch you step, for the white stone was he favourite basking spot for he island lizards. As I brushed a clump of rushes and grasses I disturbed some tiny sandy-coloured moths that fluttered up and disappeared into the vegetation, and the thick dew fell from the bracken onto the sides of my legs. A small rabbit, alarmed by the disturbance, scampered away down a little tunnel of undergrowth.

I passed the no entry sign into the North Pond hide- it was too early to really see anything, though late in the evening the gulls would settle and bathe, and if you were lucky a dunlin or godwit would be wading in the mud. I saw the pair of pied wagtails skimming across in he direction of the pond. There seemed to have been a pair there for years, always raising offspring, flying between the small islands and the peripheral undergrowth, the juveniles flitting round just below the hide.

I walked on up the far side of North Stream Valley, the alder bushes to my right. Moving through he heather patch, I remembered that the valley was the most popular breeding ground for the short-eared owls. I knew a couple of pairs had bred here this year, but it was too early to see them. I had recently seen one of the juveniles, unscarred and inexperienced, flying uncertainly on what was probably one of its first hunting forays. They were majestic in hunting, flying by day, and with an unmistakably slow wing beat and beautifully mottled brown colouring that hid them so well against the dying bracken of late summer.

Turning back towards the north coast, I walked along the main path across the bracken plateau, having no desire to disturb the Archaeology trails colony of gulls. I knew that many would be out foraging, but I could still see some, standing on the guano-covered rocky outcrops overlooking the north-east corner of the island.

Reaching the Garland Stone would never happen quite as I would tend to remember it- so aligned is the paths approach that you would not know of the huge stone's existence if it were not for standing right at the cliffs edge and staring down. The tide was out, and the mist only just starting to rise, but about twenty seals were clearly visible resting on the normally submerged platform below. Occasionally as the waves broke in they would snort and roll, but they didn't move significantly. The waves were quite gentle on the north coast of the island, and the wind limited, since it was sheltered form the predominant south-westerlies. I sat on a Sedum-covered rock amongst the more delicate sea campions, most of which were still budding and damp, and waited for he sun that I knew would shortly rise to visibility.

As I watched the gulls following the cliff face, some flying a good way out before circling and returning to follow the line of the rock, I felt the warmth hit my right shoulder. Everything that had previously been an opaque grey gradually became orange and yellow- it was a warming sight, for though sheltered, sitting on these rocks soon became cold. The early sun warmed the cheeks, but the heat was too weak to penetrate much further.

Gradually, everything came to be visible in its normal way. It was comforting to know that up at the farm, everyone else would be waking up and wandering into the kitchen in search of coffee. Where I was sitting, I saw the little fishing boat riding he waves round the island, as the other early riser, Nick, the fisherman, checked his lobster pots. Out to the north the ring of flat water of wave refraction was disturbed for an instant. Above it, a flash of light reflected from the newly risen sun revealed a gannet- three in all were present, circling the water. I knew this meant there was probably a shoal of fish below it, the birds using the flat water as a kind of window to the depths below. Realising the implications, I watched the smooth surface again, more intently, and was rewarded with the rising dorsal of a pair of porpoises cutting the surface. I knew that they were often seen, both from here and from Skomer Head, but I had never seen the dolphins people occasionally spotted. My personal favourite was the sunfish I had been lucky enough to see slapping its dorsal fin against the glassy surface on North Haven on one particularly hot summers day.

Leaving the Garland Stone, I took the coastpath to Skomer Head. This path, moving at times close to the land edge, passed through one of the islands best cliff-top heather patches. It was one from which I had spent some considerable time clearing bracken and bramble. Now, in July, the area was dark green and tussocked, evergreen looking, the many tiny tunnels through the leaf litter beneath forming a network for the island's smaller mammals. In September I knew our labour would become worthwhile, as the patch would turn purple with its many tiny flowers, the lilac of the ling and deeper pink-purple of the bell heather. It was a sight worth seeing, because at the time, hours spent bent double struggling with fronds of bracken and tugging at the exploratory tendrils of bramble felt a thankless task, but never once the result had been seen to best effect.

I could see he sun clearly now, low above the mainland, before I dipped behind a hill and it went from sight. I was now in one of the islands larger gull colonies, and the path moved away from the cliffs, through the valley. The vegetation was less colourful, dominated by bracken and nettle, broken only by tall stems of angelica and the white-stained rocks of the colony. Though the remaining gulls had their eye on me as I passed through, they remained still. It was too early for he colony to become too over-excited at my presence and dive-bomb me. At least I knew that even were they to do so, it would only be in an attempt to protect their chicks. Recently hatched, the young, fluffy and mottled grey-brown chicks did not have the oddly reptilian look or mischievous glint in the eye of their elder siblings. Most, in pairs or threesomes, would be in the flattened disks of their nests next to the protruding rocks from where their parents could see them. I knew that at this time most were awaiting the return of those birds I had seen earlier heading out to sea. I wondered how many of them would survive, the early weeks being fraught with perils, with dangers in any slight movement form the parental territory, and even more at risk for lack of food.

Leaving the gulls behind me, I continued along the path diagonally across the valley and up the hill on the other side, whereupon I could see the length of the islands west coast. As I reached the top, the sun hit me once more on the shoulders, but simultaneously did the south-westerly wind, lifting my hair up and across my face, making my eyes water. As a result of the wind and the salt spay, the vegetation here was short and stunted- even of it was not rabbit-eaten it was nipped by the harsh conditions, short and browned. Where the path widened I could see a wheatear, and round it. patches of dense brown where the strong winter gales had killed the soft Yorkshire Fog grass. Some of it had matted into areas of rotting vegetation that insect-eating birds found attractive. The wheatear flew inland showing its white rump clearly, but I could still hear others calling in the vicinity.

At Skomer Head, the land jutted out in a little headland. This was covered, round the little triangle of paths, with medium-sized stones and thrift. Lichens covered the rocks in this clean air, but the thrift, like the grasses, did not grow so tall in this very exposed area. Walking on round, I reached one of my favourite areas of the island, Tom's House. This consisted of a moderate area of flattish damp land leading down to a promontory of grey rock and boulders jutting out into the green-blue sea, the Amos. It was beautiful in the sunlight, when sunlight sparkled and reflected off the waves, but was actually most to my liking as I saw it now, in the gentle light of early morning, with the last of the mists clinging to the outcrops. The pale grey of the rock was offset not only by the deep colour of the sea, but also by the ashen-greens of the lichens that covered them. On the plateau, the ground was covered by low-lying silverweed. Very few of the small yellow flowers were showing at this time of year, but the leaves rippled and shifted in the wind, rather like he sea, showing their silver underside. Across he path was a line of old stones, once a wall, which I stepped across where the rabbits ate less, leaving the Agrostis and silverweed to grow a little taller amongst the rocks. I walked on up the gentle slope and down the other side towards the Wick.

As I approached Wick Basin and the next gull colony, I passed quite close o the cliffs, and heard a chough. Round this part of the coast, puffins were fewer on the land, compared to the Wick itself, but jackdaws and chough were still frequent. The chough was most easily identified by its call, the sound onomatopoeic, smoother than the call of the raven, and less cough-like. Binoculars would then reveal the red of the beaks and legs as they pass, normally in pairs or family groups of three or four. Often they would be out of sight in an instant, hugging the cliffs, or possibly sky-dancing and lingering longer for the occasional lucky observer. Once, amazingly, I had seen a pair on the cropped turf outside the farmyard, affording about the best view I had ever had, and they were in no hurry to go. As a spectacle they are undoubtedly at their best in the greyest of weathers, when they would rise on the wind above the clifftops, dip, and fall in their characteristic shape with their wings fingered and slightly tucked in, almost like a longbow, calling, then rising again.

By this time I had reached the collapsed shearwater burrow where there was a chicken wire covered board to protect the inhabitants from the gulls. They, now aware of my presence in the gentle light, took off simultaneously westwards to sea. When I got to where they had been standing together, I looked out to sea. It was relatively calm, and blue-green in colour. I could see many gannets towards the horizon, between Skomer and Grassholm. Grassholm looked small at this distance, but I could still clearly see the northern half, solid white with birds and guano. It was no longer possible to land, but I had circumnavigated it in the robust DalePrincess . It was undoubtedly an impressive sight, of foreboding size and with an unmistakable and notorious smell. It was only at such close quarters that you got a true impression of the sheer size of these giant seabirds.

As I walked on I reached Wick Stream itself. Here the vegetation was more lush than on other coastal parts of the island, a consequence of the unusually consistent supply of water and home to some of the islands more unusual species. The little pool was quite small, water being shorter this year than perhaps was normal, but the little stream continued to trickle down towards the cliff on the other side of the tiny bank where the path crossed. A slight change in the vegetation was then visible, with a tinge of red from the docks. Further inland the vegetation got taller, with bracken growing through and the campion reappearing. I could see the white tails of a couple of black rabbits scampering away. There were also thistles and nettles appearing here, another symptom of damp and nutrient-rich land, and the resilience of these species to the sometimes-inclement conditions.

Soon I arrived at the most popular and famous part of the island, The Wick itself. I was approaching it from the west, along the gently sloping Wick Slabs, undermined with puffin burrows. The grasses and tufted thrift extended down below the parallel-running path, ending abruptly at a deep broken bedding plane where the rest of the rest of the rock had sheered away down into the sea. It was relatively light now, but the wind funnelled down the gully, outweighing the warming effect of the morning sun. I walked to the inland apex, where the path from the Mew Stone lead down the slope and joined the Wick path across to High Cliff. Here the rain draining down had eroded the path to make it the widest on the island- that and the shuffling feet of the visitors pressing to see down the impressive cliff face. The summer sun had dried its surface so that it was brown and dusty, with struggling clumps of sea campion and Yorkshire Fog at its edges, battling the salt spray and dust coating. Around the path there were hundreds of puffin burrows, and the odd plant of ragwort growing between them and the grass.

The puffins were a delight to watch- flying in; they would whirr past the sheer cliff on the south side and round the apex. Preparing to land, they would lean back in mid air, and stick their little orange legs out like a miniature undercarriage, then dropping and landing with a bump before pushing their heads up and looking at you critically from one eye, shuffling their feathers as if to regain their dignity. The next step would be to relocate their burrows. They would bow their heads and walk through other birds' territories like little Dickensian men in top hats and tails. For most it was only a short time till they reached their own burrow, but others had to cross the path. This meant that I was sitting between them and their destination. In this case they would walk up and down along the paths edge, sand eels quivering in their beaks, growling. It is a curious and appealing noise to hear from such a small bird, somewhat unexpected. It is more inquisitive than threatening, but whatever the intended effect it certainly produced the desired result. The guilt that inevitably ensued from blocking the poor things path left me feeling an obligation to move, following which they would scuttle across in unison and disappear down their respective holes without a sound. A few minutes later they would reappear, looking proud with their heads held high, and off they would go again. If I moved too quickly, I would startle them, and then they would all take off simultaneously with an even louder whirr, descending to sea level along the length of the Wick.

If any bird on the island could be described as romantic, then it was here you would find it- the fulmar. Romantic is far from he truth for this, by necessity, tough and resilient bird. However, its first appearance may leave the spectator imagining it to be so. A number of these petrels inhabit the upper ledges of the sheer cliff, above he razorbills, guillemots and kittiwakes. They are normally solitary, or in July with their soft grey chicks peeking round from behind them. While the chicks are young, an adult is normally to be seen with it- the other adult would then fly out in search of food, taking off with their identifiable straight wings and almost no movement, gliding down the cliff before catching a thermal and rising up again. Returning, they would follow the cliff and circle, rising towards the nest, pushing their feet towards it, but then often apparently changing their minds and swooping straight down the cliff again, to repeat the scenario. It was their noise that I loved he most, as distinctive rough, almost laughing noise- though it is often barely distinguishable above that of the kittiwakes.

To be continued....

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