Skomer Island, Pembrokeshire, 2026
The boat from Martin's Haven only takes twenty minutes, but it feels like crossing into somewhere else entirely. Skomer sits just off the Pembrokeshire coast, and for a few months each spring and summer it holds one of the largest Atlantic puffin colonies in southern Britain.
The landing itself sets the tone. You climb out onto slick stone steps at North Haven while the swell pushes the boat against the rocks, and from there it's a short climb up onto the plateau where the puffins are. Puffins everywhere, perched at burrow entrances, shuffling along the clifftop paths, completely unbothered by the small queue of photographers waiting for them to do something interesting.
What surprised me most was how close you can get without disturbing them. Skomer's puffins have grown used to visitors sticking to the marked paths, and if you sit still for long enough birds will land within a few feet, sand eels hanging from their bills, sizing you up before ducking down into their burrows. Patience matters more than a long lens.
The light on the island changes constantly. Bright spells turn the sea a hard, brilliant blue and throw everything into sharp relief; cloud rolling in off the Atlantic softens it all and makes the colours in the wildflowers (thrift, campion, sea mayweed) stand out against the grass. I spent most of a day just moving between a handful of spots along the clifftop, waiting for birds coming back in from fishing.
That's the moment worth waiting for. Puffins aren't elegant fliers: they come in fast and low, wings blurring, and drop onto the turf in a way that looks more like a controlled crash than a landing. Getting a clean frame of one arriving with a beakful of sand eels, wings still braced, took more attempts than I'd like to admit, but when it comes together it's one of the most satisfying shots I've had.
Skomer isn't only puffins, either. Razorbills and guillemots pack onto the narrower ledges nearby, and gulls patrol overhead looking for an easy meal from a distracted parent bird. There's a constant, low hum of activity across the whole colony that makes it hard to know where to point the camera next.
By the time the last boat back to the mainland comes round, the island has usually gone quiet again, the birds settling for the evening as the light drops. It's a short visit, but a full one, and one I'd happily repeat every summer the crossing allows.
