As the seabird breeding season on the Farne Islands begins to wind down, it’s the perfect time to reflect on what has been, overall, a successful and moving chapter in the lives of our feathered residents. Nature never promises ease, but this year gave us far more good days than bad. The weather was mostly kind, with just a few stormy spells forcing us to close the islands. When we do that, it’s not for us—it’s for the birds, especially the Arctic Terns.

You see, when visitors step onto the islands, the terns rise up in defence. They dive-bomb, peck, and scream—not out of malice, but out of fierce parental instinct. But in leaving their nests to defend against us, their chicks are exposed. In heavy rain, tiny, down-covered chicks can’t survive without the warmth of their parents. They freeze. They perish. So when we hold back, it’s an act of love and protection, mirroring their own.

And what remarkable birds the Arctic Terns are. These elegant, silver-winged guardians of the sky travel more than any other creature on Earth—migrating from the Antarctic to nest right here on the Farnes. They fly tens of thousands of miles just to lay a couple of precious eggs on our shores. Their loyalty to these islands is nothing short of awe-inspiring, and to share space with them is an absolute privilege.

The puffins, too, have lit up the cliffs and grassy slopes with their clown-like charm. Their numbers are thinning now as they begin their quiet departure, but we’ve still seen the occasional beakful of sandeels, a sure sign that there are chicks still snug in burrows below. For those lucky enough to witness one more flash of a puffin, savour it—they’ll be gone soon, back to the sea until next spring.

Kittiwakes have had a standout year. We’ve watched them from our favourite vantage points, tracking their progress from nest-building to hatchlings to fledglings stretching their wings. There’s a certain joy, almost sacred, in watching parents feed, teach, and fiercely protect their young. To witness these milestones daily is a gift, and one we never take for granted.

But for every victory, there’s a shadow. And this season, that shadow came in the form of gulls—especially the Greater Black-backed, Lesser Black-backed, and Herring Gulls. They’ve always been opportunists, but this year they’ve been relentless. Eggs, tiny chicks, even almost-fledged youngsters have been taken. I watched, heart in mouth, as a Greater Black-backed Gull swallowed a full-grown kittiwake chick whole—alive. The Lesser Black-backs and Herring Gulls were no less brutal, tearing into the chicks with a shocking ferocity. Yes, it’s nature. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

The guillemots, razorbills, and puffins have done well, all things considered, and yet the gulls have taken their toll on these colonies too. Predation is part of life on the islands, but this year it felt more aggressive, more constant. It’s hard to say why. Perhaps changing food sources or increased competition have pushed them to take bigger risks, or perhaps they’ve simply learned there’s easy pickings in the colonies.

The Sandwich Terns—mysterious and fickle as ever—were another puzzle this year. They laid eggs, began to settle… and then, almost overnight, vanished. No storms, no obvious threats, just gone. Even the experts on Inner Farne were left scratching their heads. That’s the thing with wild creatures: they don’t always offer explanations. They just move with the wind.

And what of the Common Terns? We’re still waiting for the full picture, but signs are mixed. Some chicks made it. Some didn’t. The story of the season, it seems, is one of uneven fortunes.

But despite the heartbreaks—and there are many—this season has been far from bleak. The weather was mostly kind. The breeding birds had food. The pufflings popped out, the kittiwakes thrived, and the sandeels are still wriggling in beaks, a testament to the continuing ban on industrial sandeel fishing. That ban is a lifeline, a real conservation success, and it gives us hope for future seasons.

Working on the Farnes means witnessing the raw truth of nature: its joy, its tragedy, its resilience. It’s a rollercoaster of emotion, from the thrill of first chicks hatching to the sadness of lost lives. But more than anything, it’s a privilege. We are guests in this great seabird city, caretakers of something ancient and wild.

So as the cliffs quiet and the skies begin to empty, we carry with us the lessons of this season—of bravery, vulnerability, and the power of persistence. Here’s to the seabirds, and to doing everything we can to protect their future.