When I was a kid, I went through an extended phase where I was oddly obsessed with puffins. I had shunned the interests of my more youthy youth in defiance, and in turn decided that these little birds were the pinnacle of existence.
I can trace this whole period back to a necklace I was given when I was quite little, after declaring vehemently that my previous dalliance with unicorns was for babies and that I was now interested in a much more sophisticated animal. Looking back on it, I find it hilarious I chose a bird which was to become one of the most bumbling, bashful, and dorky memes in existence; somehow, this is very apropos to my life in general.
I was burnt out on all things horned or flying equine and striking out as an independent and individual child of taste. I had previously shown a deep interest in fantasy after tackling Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn not too long after I began reading beyond a picture book level, and that. was. it. It was as if I had somehow grown a little horn and started sparkling in the eyes of every adult who had seen me devouring this book, and as such, all instantly seized upon this opportunity to gift me something unicorny. Unicorn pyjamas, stuffed pegasi, unicorns on my lamp and on my socks and stickers and erasers and playsets and on my blankets and on little novelty band-aids... the fuckers were actually physically stuck to me. Unable to sufficiently explain that I also required dragons and manticores and knights and sorcery without being buried in another pile of pink unicorns, one day I marched into the kitchen and declared in no uncertain terms that I was all about puffins now. No arguments would be brooked, all offerings were now to be made in the form of puffins, I said GOOD DAY TO YOU, SIR.
I swear that this whole aside is contextually relevant, as not long after, I received a mood necklace in the shape of a puffin with an enigmatic little smile. That silly pendant became like a totem for me. I could never look at its Mona Lisa beak without marvelling that these must be the wisest and most delightfully content birds in the world. Whenever I needed reassurance, I'd press the smooth, cool metal into my palm so hard the edges of the wingtips would dig in, and see how many shades I could cycle the plated plumage through. I projected the ideals of that necklace onto birds I'd never seen, and vowed to myself that someday I would go to where they lived, absorb some of that wise and gentle kindness, and tell those puffins in person just how great they were.
And here I am, twenty five years into the future, living the dream: crouched on one of the most dangerous staircases in the world, murmuring sweet nothings to a confused and disinterested puffin living between slate slabs, thoroughly annoyed at the humans clomping about overhead.
I've written a series about my time in Ireland and on Skellig Michael before, but didn't really focus on the goober birds that make many of the rocky cliffs in the country home. There is such a sense of gravitas about this world heritage site, that the mental picture of waddling, less-than-intelligent puffin butts weeble-wobbling around underfoot everywhere you look undermines the written form a bit. These perky, sweet birds scatter around me as I make the climb, tumbling down hillsides or making truncated glide-hops from perch to perch. They're every bit as delightful as I had imagined as a child, but I'm forced to admit to myself — as one actually slips and falls between the 'risers' of the stone stairs — that the wisdom I had attributed to them in my youth may have been misplaced. They are absolutely everywhere here. Unfortunately, they also seem to be completely, obliviously dumb.
Once this trip is over and a year has passed, I'll go to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and be completely annoyed with the obvious consumer-bait porgs... that is, until I make the connection that they're just puffins. I'll realize it would be impossible (and horrible) to try to shoo these protected birds from their homes for filming. I'll picture a frazzled, miserable team of production assistants wailing in frustration, running up and down the hillsides trying to collect up roly poly puffins in overflowing buckets and having more and more pop up all over like curiously feathered whack-a-moles... and then I'll laugh until I cry at the image so hard that no one will understand, and someone will actually throw popcorn in my hair in the theatre.
These photos and words are my own work, inspired by travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
