All my life I have been obsessed by black and white birds. Magpies are my tormentors, my morning omens of whether my day will be worthwhile or miserable. Penguins are my salvation. When I’m a little melancholy, I pop along to London Zoo to read them poetry. In my experience, they enjoy The Wasteland.
There is another black and white bird that I have long found appealing: the puffin. My attempts to spot them, however, have been in vain. On a school geography field trip to the far north, I managed to see Iceland’s ugliest dog but no puffins. There seemed to be a family curse. My uncle was once booked a birthday trip to Puffin Island, off Anglesey, only to discover they’d all flown away.
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But then I blagged a trip to Shetland. Nominally, I was there to cover the SNP’s Holyrood win. As soon as I’d left the ferry, I trooped through the drizzle to Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, the mainland’s southernmost beauty spot. On Shetland, puffins are called ‘Tammie Norries’. By the advertising, I assumed they’d be everywhere. Stand by the cliffs, spot a puffin, and my life would be complete. Then I could crack on with some proper reporting.
