Puffin Island and the blocked drain

I am not a fan of wildlife tourism but I can’t resist the opportunity to go to Puffin Island each year. This year I booked the boat trip during the Whit break when the kids were off school and my wife was in Canada. I left it late in the week because the weather was bad and I was hoping for calm waters and beautiful photographs. Perfect planning, I thought.

Puffins are truly remarkable birds and appear able to fly under water just as easily as they can above it. Above the water their wings beat rapidly at 400 beats a minute to propel their chubby little bodies to speeds of 90kmh. Below the water their wings beat slowly as they plunge to depths of 60 metres, catching up to ten small fish at a time in their lacerated bills. Puffins are faithful birds too, returning to the same breeding ground each spring to reunite with their partners after months of separation. I could go on but perhaps most importantly they just look so adorable in their dinner jackets with their earnest eyes and garish make up.

On the eve of my trip I checked the weather forecast incessantly, bemoaning every fractional increase in predicted wind speed that threatened my impending joy. I get horribly seasick. What I didn’t anticipate was that the threat of something far more mundane, and far more sickening. My toilet. It became apparent that nothing was going down and in a family of six (minus one) that is not good. After some over enthusiastic poking and plunging the U bend started to leak too. The Gorilla tape I applied so desperately didn’t work so the situation was now officially beyond my skill set. The plumber eventually came and after some huffin’ and puffin’ of his own concluded the problem was deeper in the drains and he’d have to come back the next day. Unlike my poo, my heart sank. That’s my special day. What should I do? It’s too late to cancel the trip and I can’t leave a strange man the house with kids, can I?

When the plumber returned the next day, I mentioned Puffin Island and it transpired that he knew the place well. As a child he went on holiday to Anglesey each year fishing with his father. Problem solved. This is a man I can trust, I thought. Besides, I further rationalised, the kids are teenagers and will probably stay in bed all day anyway.

Notwithstanding my brilliant logic my mind was restless, with hint of guilt, on the two-hour drive to Anglesey. I called one child after another but no response. I continued to call once settled on the boat. No response. Oh well, I’m here now, I should just enjoy the spectacle. There was no spectacle. The waters were too rough even for seabirds. Puffin on port-side the guide yelled unexpectedly. By the time I figured out which side that was, it was gone, or at least too far gone to get that award winning photograph I was after. Should have listened to her instructions earlier but I was too busy on the phone.

By the time I got home the kids were awake, the plumber had gone and the blockage remained. All I had to show for my travails was a couple of lousy, I mean really lousy, puffin photos. Here's the pick of the bunch.

So, what have I learnt? Well, nature cannot be tamed and that’s what makes it so special. You can’t control the wind or the sea or bowel movements but you can adapt to pretty much anything. Even as I write, we somehow manage to deal with the blockage day-to-day. The less detail you know the better but forgive me if I don’t shake your hand when we next meet. It’s a war of attrition but, the hope is, one day our patience and perseverance will wear it down to a point where we can once more pass freely. Unless of course it wears us down first.