The Oldenburg

The quayside at Bideford was cold at seven o'clock in the morning. Low cloud hung over the estuary. The MS Oldenburg sat low in the water. A crane lowered kegs of beer and crates of vegetables onto the bow. The stern paint was a fresh royal blue.

I joined the boarding queue behind two older women. Within ten minutes, their group swelled to nine as friends arrived to push into the line. On board, I bypassed the crowded outer decks and found a seat in the lower saloon. Portholes let in the grey morning light. Photographs of dolphins lined the wood-panelled walls. The space removed the noise of a school group gathering above.

The engine settled into a rattling growl. We pulled away from the quay. I walked upstairs to the outer deck. Passengers huddled in their waterproofs against the early chill. A lone heron stood on the muddy riverbank. We passed under the New Torridge Bridge. Someone had sprayed a mermaid wearing a deep-sea diving mask onto one of the concrete supports. A St Petroc flag flapped hard in the wind.

The river widened at Appledore. Dozens of gulls lined a shipyard roof. A four-person gig rowed past us towards Bideford. Opposite Appledore at Instow, the water was crowded with moored yachts painted in forty different shades of white and beige. An RNLI lifeboat appeared from the estuary mouth. It passed our port side. The captain waved before opening the throttle.

The tannoy promised calm water. The Atlantic had other plans, pitching the deck violently from port to starboard. Hartland Point slid out of view through the cabin glass, and Lundy took its place, sitting dead ahead beneath a flat grey sky.

I went back down to the lower saloon. I sat watching a red fire extinguisher swivel hypnotically in its wall bracket as the ship tilted. Outside the toilets, passengers clutched white sick bags. I stared out of the porthole at the horizon to settle my stomach. The island's southern lighthouse and church tower slowly sharpened into view. The mist was lifting.

The Oldenburg pulled alongside the jetty. A single Atlantic grey seal watched our arrival from the bay. A disinfectant carpet covered the jetty. Every passenger crossed it before stepping onto the island.

The road from the jetty climbed steeply. Cormorants occupied the rocks far below. A Landmark Trust worker drove a quad bike up the incline. He rode sitting sideways to keep a constant watch on the cargo strapped to the back.

The crowd surged towards the village at the summit. We broke away onto a track cutting through open pasture. Dry stone walls framed the springy turf. I had just raised my binoculars when a pair of male sika deer bounded over a fence fifty yards ahead.

We walked the island clockwise. The Old Light passed on our right, now a holiday cottage. The ground dropped away sharply towards Battery Point. Tourists bottlenecked on the steep dirt path. I saw a group of people sitting motionless at the headland's end.

I took out my binoculars again. The puffins were two hundred feet below us on the shoreline.

The cliff edge narrowed to a strip of grass. Wind came straight off the Atlantic. The sound from below rose and fell against the rock.

I unpacked my new zoom lens.

Wide stance. Balanced. Braced against the breeze. Pressed the shutter. Hoped for the best.

I took dozens of frames of the breeding couples. They were much smaller than I thought. I had expected something the size of a penguin. They were closer in scale to a gull. We stayed for half an hour. Their low calls carried up the cliff face. I packed the lens away and stepped back from the edge.

The main path continued north to Jenny Cove. I remembered the name from a chalkboard on the ship. I sat on the grass above the drop. From the path, they were black specks on granite. Through the binoculars, the cliff face came alive. Gannets, razorbills and puffins jostled for space on the narrow ledges.

We reached St. Mark's Stone at the north-west corner. I looked back at the razor-sharp granite cliffs jutting out of the water like teeth. Three hours after leaving the boat, we arrived at North Light. South Wales was a thin grey strip across the channel.

Turning south onto the eastern path, we spotted a Eurasian skylark overhead before the weather closed in. Heavy mist dragged across the plateau and swallowed the Old Light. We pushed on through open fields, sharing the damp turf with grazing sheep and feral goats.

An hour later, we reached the village outskirts. Highland cows with handlebar horns stood by the path. They barely registered us walking past.

Beyond the cattle, the working farm marked the village's southern edge. Old stone outbuildings now serve as holiday cottages beside the livestock sheds. In the adjoining campsite, a couple of tents strained against the breeze.

I went into the shop. It sold groceries for long-stay visitors, along with stamps for the island's private postal system. A display case held Puffin coins dated from 1929. Lundy's former owner had minted his own currency and promptly faced prosecution from the mainland authorities.

I headed across to the Marisco Tavern and ordered a pint of Old Light ale. A giant Truman, Hanbury and Buxton mirror hung on the wall. Across the room, a dartboard sat framed inside a lifebuoy. A nearby chalk sign advertised pickled gull's eggs for a shilling and a strict £1 fine awaited anyone caught looking at a mobile phone.

Before heading down to the ship, I stopped at St Helens Church. The 1897 building was completely shrouded in low cloud. The interior held no sound. The floor tiles were uneven. I tripped twice as I walked down the aisle. I found a pew and sat for ten minutes.

On the walk back to the Oldenburg, I passed a field of Lundy ponies. A large queue had already formed on the jetty. The ship was built for the German Federal Railways in 1958 and has worked the Lundy route since 1986. We boarded quickly. The captain departed twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

I sat in the middle of the saloon with a soft drink. The return crossing was completely flat. The ship slowed as it entered the estuary. The mainland was entirely clear of mist. I went out to the deck to look at Baggy Point and Saunton Sands. We passed Appledore again. Dozens of people stood on the sea wall and waved at the passing ship.

The Oldenburg pulled into Bideford quay. The mooring lines went over the side. The crane swung back over the bow to lift out the empty kegs.