My husband’s views on the sea are quite clear: it’s cold, it’s wet and it doesn’t stay still. No one is their right mind would go in it for choice, let alone on it. It’s not that he’s deliberately difficult. He’s not a confident swimmer and he could get sea sick in the bath.

So, I looked at him now with the pangs of guilt that I always feel whenever I suggest anything vaguely aquatic. It was written all over his face; death could not come soon enough. His misery was made all the worse by the fact that no one else in the boat was suffering a jot. Small boys, ignoring their parents’ advice that they would feel cold later, were leaning into the salt spray, squealing with delight as they got drenched. Those of us with less enthusiasm for hypothermia were sticking to the centre of the boat.

So why had a fully grown adult with a pathological hatred of small boats allowed himself and his lunch to be put in such a position? The answer is simple: puffins.

We all know what a puffin looks like. It’s a daft bird with a colourful beak that graces the spines of children’s books. To see one in the flesh, however, is a lot harder. For starters, and this comes as a surprise to most people, it’s not very big – only marginally larger than a blackbird. More importantly, this bird is “pelagic”. This single word describes something quite remarkable: these birds come to shore only to breed. Just think about it for a moment: when you are I are huddled round the fire at Christmas, when the Met Office is issuing gale warnings for Dogger, Fisher and German Byte, thousand of little puffins are sitting on the waves, riding out the storm. An old fisherman once explained to me that fresh water, being lighter than salt water, floats so there’s always a minutely thin layer of fresh water on the surface of the sea, for these birds to drink. But, as my husband would be quick to point out, the sea has got great big waves on it – so how do they scoop up a beakful?

No Chuffin Puffin

As I looked at him in his misery, I remembered this trip had come with a health warning. There was no guarantee we would see any puffins. True, they nested in the area but if they were out fishing, we’d be out of luck.

Bass Rock was our ultimate destination. The remains of an eroded volcano about a mile off-shore from North Berwick in South East Scotland, this is the home a huge sea bird colony. From a distance, the rock looks white. As we approached, we realised it wasn’t: it was wall to wall birds. As we got closer still, the rock began to reveal its volcanic past: it was smoking – not with volcanic ash but with clouds of birds! Birds circled and wheeled, floating higher and higher above the rock. Then, as we got nearer, the full aerial display started. Gannets!

Yeh! Yeh! We all know about gannets. Common as muck and a by-word for greed. What about the puffins?

Just forget the puffins.

Gold Medal Gannets

Until you have seen gannets doing their stuff, you simply cannot visualise the unparalleled elegance of these birds. They climb high into the sky, flip themselves into a vertical dive and plunge at Olympic speed into the waves. And this lot were doing it 2 metres from the boat!

We sailed right up to the rock. Perched on every spare semi horizontal patch of ground were nesting birds. Gannets – big and white, with glowing yellow heads, were performing elaborate fencing displays with their partners. Smaller and more sedate, black and white guillemots were patrolling the rock like neighbourhood policemen.

Our guide was doing a magnificent commentary, explaining the ecology of the rock and the behaviour of the birds. “This bird”, he explained, “is calling to his mate as he approaches the rock, to re-establish the bond between them.” Calling he certainly was, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what he was saying as he lost control and crash landed on his mate’s head! Both birds fluffed their feathers at the indignity of the whole episode. Even my husband had forgotten his seasickness and was enchanted.

After a magical half hour floating so close to the rock that we could have lent out and touched the birds, we set off for home. No puffins but by now nobody cared.

Send in the Clowns

Then 15 minutes from the shore, there they were. Puffins! Dozens of them. Ridiculous birds, flapping as fast as their little wings could go, as if the whole idea of plopping into the sea filled them with terror. Red and yellow beaks at the front, red webbed feet at the back, stuck out at improbable angles. The Italians call them Clowns of the Sea – they certainly are!

So at the end of the variety show, everyone was happy. And, as with every variety show, everyone has their favourites. Some preferred the straight man, others preferred the clowns. For me the undoubted stars were the acrobats: the magical, the greedy, the common as muck – gannets.

Boat trips to Bass Rock depart twice daily from the harbour in North Berwick. Round trip lasts approximately 1 ½ hrs. Check at the Scottish Sea Bird Centre for details. Sailings are, of course, weather dependent, so phone before setting out: 01620 890 202