Flamborough Head: Seabirds, Cliffs & Wildlife Photography

The rugged cliffs of Flamborough Head and Bempton Cliffs have a way of calling you back.

I'd been once before, but I knew I had to return.

This time, I planned the visit for late June, dreaming of a coastline at its absolute peak — the air thick with seabirds, tiny chicks in the nests, and puffins dotting the clifftops.

What I hadn't factored into my dream was the need for a thick jacket and fingerless gloves. In June.

A City Built on Wind

As we approached the cliff edge, the sound hit us. It was a wall of noise carried on a ferocious wind — the raw, chaotic calls of thousands upon thousands of nesting seabirds.

Gannets, Kittiwakes, Guillemots, and Razorbills clung to the cliffs, each one defending a tiny territory in a city built on wind and sea spray.

The immediate problem wasn't the sound; it was the cold.

A relentless gale blew straight off the North Sea, and no amount of clothing could stop my teeth from chattering or my eyes from watering.

My first thought was, 'How on earth am I going to hold the camera steady in this?'

I was so thankful I'd lugged the heavy tripod and gimbal head (a fluid mount that lets you track moving birds smoothly — essential in this wind) from the car; without that stability, I'd have packed up and left.

But then I noticed something incredible.

The wind, which felt like my enemy, was my unexpected partner. Flying against the headwind, the birds were forced to slow down, almost hovering in mid-air.

That windy afternoon taught me more about cliff flight photography than any tutorial. I've since written a full guide on how wind direction, sun position, and cliff lift bands work together for head-on bird flight shots: Best Wind Direction for Head-On Bird Flight Photos.

And that's when a little voice in my head, born from a dozen past failures, started chanting, 'This is your chance. Now, don't mess it up.'

Puffins, which normally fly at a blur with wings beating 400 times a minute, were now hanging in the air right in front of me.

My numb fingers felt like sausages on the small buttons, as I changed the setting on my camera. Shutter Priority mode lets me control how fast the camera freezes movement and at 1/1250th of a second, even those frantically beating puffin wings go sharp.

I remember thinking, "Now, just keep it in the frame."

It's in those challenging moments, when you have to trust your gut, and your camera, that the real magic happens.

Seabird City Gallery

A Different Battle on the Water

If Friday was a battle against the wind, Saturday was a battle against the waves.

An email the night before warned of a significant swell at sea, but the gentle breeze in Bridlington Harbour gave us false hope.

The calm did not last.

Once we rounded the headland, the Yorkshire Belle began to roll side to side in the choppy water. My stomach did the same!

Trying to photograph birds from a moving boat that's pitching in the swell is a whole new level of difficulty. It was a humbling experience; for every one decent shot, there were twenty blurry images of sea and sky.

The water was covered with thousands of floating Guillemots and Razorbills.

While our skipper navigated with care, maintaining a respectful distance, we witnessed something that soured the moment.

A pair of jet skiers blasted directly through the rafts of resting birds, scattering them in a panic.

The RSPB guide on board explained this violated the protective guidelines designed to safeguard the colonies.

Watching those jet skiers scatter the birds, I felt a surge of protective anger. But it also made me realize something important: every time we approach wildlife with respect and patience, we're making a choice.

We're choosing to be part of the solution rather than the problem. That's a responsibility I carry with me on every shoot now.

If you're thinking about a boat trip, know that it's a very different challenge — and worth trying at least once.

The Smaller Stories

But the big spectacles of gannets and guillemots weren't the only stories unfolding.

Back on land, we were lucky enough to watch a family of Swallows fledge. The parents worked tirelessly, catching insects for the four youngsters who wobbled on fences, testing their new wings.

I also kept an eye out for Tree Sparrows — partly because they're on the Red List of species in serious decline in the UK, but mostly because searching for them taught me patience.

When everything around you is dramatic and obvious, learning to spot the quiet, overlooked species sharpens your eye for detail. It's a skill that serves you everywhere.

It's these quiet, intimate moments that often stay with you the longest — a handsome male Linnet posing briefly on a hedge, or the fleeting glimpse of a Short-eared Owl at dusk.

What I Learned at the Edge of the World

That weekend, I took over a thousand photographs.

But the real takeaway wasn't a memory card full of images. It was the humbling, thrilling feeling of standing at the edge of the world, in the teeth of a gale, and finding a way to capture the story unfolding around me.

You don't need the best camera gear for that.

What you really need is patience, warm gloves, and a willingness to see the wind not as an obstacle, but as an opportunity. If that idea appeals to you, I've pulled everything I've learned about wind and bird photography into a practical field guide: see the link in the further reading section below.

It's a lesson that Yorkshire's rugged, dramatic coastline is always waiting to teach.

Further Reading

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