The First Time I Saw a Gannet

I still remember the exact moment. Standing on the clifftops at Bempton, camera in hand, heart racing as I watched gannets soaring along the cliff face. The sheer size of them – that six-foot wingspan – was breathtaking. Then one landed on its nest, and I watched transfixed as it greeted its partner with the most elaborate display I’d ever seen: neck stretching skyward, wings slightly raised, bills pointing to the heavens as they performed their sky-pointing ritual together. The intimacy, the grace, the sheer spectacle of it. In that instant, something clicked. This wasn’t just bird photography – this was witnessing a complex social behaviour, a language between partners, pure beauty and connection.

People often ask me what it is about seabirds specifically. Why not garden birds, or birds of prey, or any of the countless other wildlife photography subjects? The truth is, I photograph other things too, but seabirds? Seabirds are different.

There’s something about the coastal environment that speaks to my soul. The smell of salt air, the sound of waves crashing against cliffs, the cacophony of thousands of birds calling, squabbling, courting, and raising their young. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way. When I’m on those clifftops, camera pressed to my face, everything else fades away – the chronic pain, the fatigue, the daily struggles of living with fibromyalgia and Crohn’s disease. In those moments, there’s only me, the birds, and the perfect light.

But beyond the sensory experience, it’s the birds themselves that captivate me. Each species has its own personality, its own behaviours, its own quirks. Gannets are what started it all for me – these magnificent birds with their impressive wingspans, those piercing blue eyes rimmed with distinctive black markings, and courtship rituals that are nothing short of mesmerising. Watching a pair greet each other upon return to the nest – bills gently clashing, necks intertwining, that tender mutual preening – it never gets old, no matter how many times I witness it. Puffins are the charismatic clowns everyone falls in love with, incredibly dedicated parents making hundreds of trips to feed their single chick. Guillemots and razorbills pack onto narrow ledges in impossibly dense colonies, somehow recognising their own chick among thousands. Kittiwakes build precarious nests on the smallest cliff outcrops, calling their own name endlessly.

Learning to read their behaviour has been a years-long education. I can now tell when a gannet is about to take off by the way it shuffles its feet and extends its neck, facing into the wind. I recognise the difference between an aggressive posture – bill open, wings spread – and a greeting display. I know that when a gannet returns to its nest, the reunion ceremony is pure magic. I understand that collecting nesting material isn’t just practical – it’s also a bonding behaviour, with birds presenting seaweed to their partners like gifts. I’ve learned that the best light for photographing these behaviour’s happens in the golden hour of early morning and late evening. This knowledge didn’t come from books or workshops – it came from thousands of hours simply being there, watching, waiting, learning.

Here’s something I don’t often talk about: seabirds have genuinely helped me cope with chronic illness. Living with Fibromyalgia and Crohn’s disease means living with chronic pain, fatigue, and unpredictability. There are days when getting out of bed feels impossible, when the pain is so intense that the idea of carrying camera gear and walking cliff paths seems laughable.

But the seabirds? They give me a reason to try. They give me purpose beyond managing symptoms and medical appointments. Planning a trip to photograph seabirds gives me something to look forward to during the difficult times. And when I’m actually there, camera in hand, watching a pair of gannets perform their sky-pointing display or launch into flight – the pain doesn’t disappear, but it becomes background noise. In those moments, I’m not “a person with chronic illness” – I’m just a photographer doing what I love.

The seabird season gives structure to my year. Spring brings the anticipation of their return, the excitement of seeing the gannets back on their nests – they’re early arrivals, often back by January or February. Summer is peak activity – the chaos of chick-feeding season when the colonies are at their noisiest and busiest. Autumn brings the bittersweet feeling as birds start to disperse, heading back out to sea. Winter is quiet planning time, reviewing images, preparing for the next season. This cycle, this rhythm tied to these incredible birds, has become integral to how I structure my life around managing chronic illness.

Which brings me to the announcement I’ve been bursting to share, the secret I’ve been keeping, the thing that still makes me teary-eyed when I think about it. Next year, I’ll be leading seabird photography workshops at RSPB Bempton Cliffs.

Let that sink in for a moment. The place where my seabird obsession began, the colony I’ve visited countless times, the location I know intimately, where I watched my first gannet courtship display and fell hopelessly in love with these magnificent birds – I’ll be teaching there. Officially. In partnership with the RSPB. It feels surreal even typing those words.

This is so much more than just “running workshops.” This represents validation that the thousands of hours I’ve spent on clifftops weren’t just personal passion – they’ve resulted in genuine expertise worth sharing. It’s proof that chronic illness doesn’t have to stop you from achieving your dreams, even if the path takes longer and looks different than you imagined. It’s the culmination of years of learning, practicing, failing, trying again, and never giving up on these incredible birds.

When I started wildlife photography, leading workshops seemed like something other people did. “Real” photographers. People without health limitations. People who could commit to regular schedules and long days without worrying about flare-ups or fatigue. The idea that I could do it too felt impossible.

But here’s what I’ve learned: expertise comes in many forms. Yes, I might not be able to lead workshops every single day, or commit to the gruelling schedules some photographers maintain.

But what I bring is different and equally valuable. I bring deep, intimate knowledge of seabird behaviour learned from years of observation. I bring an understanding of how to work within limitations, how to maximise opportunities when you can’t always be there. I bring empathy for students who might have their own challenges – whether that’s physical limitations, learning differences, anxiety, or simply being a beginner in a world that can feel intimidating.

Most importantly, I bring genuine passion. When I teach you to photograph gannets, I’m not just teaching camera settings (though we’ll absolutely cover those). I’m sharing the subtle cues that signal an imminent takeoff – the foot shuffle, the neck extension, positioning into the wind. I’m helping you understand the nuances of their complex social interactions: distinguishing between a welcoming ceremony and territorial aggression, recognising when partners are about to perform their synchronised display. You’ll learn to read the story unfolding before your lens, not just capture a technically correct image.

Leading workshops at Bempton represents the intersection of everything I love and everything I’ve learned. It’s taking years of experience photographing seabirds across the UK and distilling it into knowledge I can share. It’s combining my passion for these incredible birds with my desire to help others experience the joy and wonder I feel every time I’m on those cliffs.

I want workshop participants to leave not just with better photographs, but with a deeper appreciation for seabirds. I want them to understand why gannets are so much more than just beautiful subjects – they’re incredibly complex birds with fascinating behaviour's and remarkable social bonds. I want them to feel the same excitement I feel when watching a gannet return to its nest and perform that elegant greeting ceremony with its partner. I want them to recognise the subtle signs before a gannet launches into flight, and to have the knowledge and skills to capture it perfectly.

These workshops are also about representation. As a female wildlife photographer in what’s traditionally been a male-dominated field, and as someone managing chronic illness while pursuing this passion, I want to show others that there’s room for everyone in wildlife photography. You don’t need to fit a certain mold. You don’t need to be able to hike mountains or camp in extreme conditions (though if you can, that’s great too!). You need passion, patience, and a willingness to learn.

The first workshop begins on Tuesday, 3rd March, right as the seabird season is getting into full swing. Gannets will be settled back onto nests, courtship displays will be happening constantly, puffins will be returning, and the cliffs will be coming alive after the quiet winter months. It’s the perfect time to begin this new chapter.

I’ll be sharing everything I know – the technical skills, the behavioural knowledge, the tricks I’ve learned over years of trial and error. But more than that, I’ll be sharing my love for these birds and these wild coastal places. I’ll be creating a welcoming, inclusive space where everyone feels comfortable asking questions and learning at their own pace.

Looking back at that first moment when I watched a pair of gannets sky-pointing at Bempton, I never could have imagined it would lead here. I didn’t know that witnessing that single spectacular display would become a years-long obsession. I didn’t know it would take me to remote Scottish islands and dramatic coastal cliffs across the UK. I didn’t know these birds would become my therapy, my purpose, my passion.

And I certainly didn’t know that one day I’d be standing on those same Bempton cliffs, leading workshops and sharing this passion with others.

But here we are. The girl who fell in love with gannet courtship displays is now teaching others to photograph them. The photographer who sometimes struggles to get out of bed because of chronic pain is now a workshop leader. The person who didn’t think she belonged in professional wildlife photography is partnering with the RSPB.

Dreams don’t always look the way you expect them to. Sometimes they take longer to achieve. Sometimes the path is harder than you anticipated. Sometimes you have to adapt them to fit your reality. But that doesn’t make them any less valid or any less worth pursuing.

Seabirds changed my life. Those magnificent gannets with their beautiful displays, their intricate social behaviour's, their grace in flight and tender moments with their partners – they gave me purpose and passion when I needed it most. Now I get to share that with others, at the very place where it all began.

And honestly? I can’t wait.