How nature signals spring's arrival in Shetland

I heard them before I saw them, a shrill piping sound carried with the wind. It was the day after strong westerly gales and the salt glazed air seemed to hold the light, bringing the colours of sunset closer to me.

Then I saw them, a pair of oystercatchers, shalder as they are known in Shetland. They skimmed the surface of the waves, their voices heralding the start of spring.

When I first moved to Shetland it was January, a few weeks after the winter solstice as the light was slowly beginning to return. Some of my first conversations with neighbours were about the changing season and the signs islanders look out for.

One neighbour explained, “The light is starting to shift. It’s clearer now and the shalders are back. Look at the sparrows,” he gestured towards birds flitting around the ruins of an old crofthouse, “they know, they are thinking about nesting”.

I was in Shetland to conduct research on native breeds and landscape, so my days were spent out on the hills with crofters and pony breeders. I loved learning about the landscape from people who knew it intimately, who often had connections to place going back generations and continued to learn about it every day through their shared lives with animals.

Noticing changes to weather and season were central to this, an embodied art of noticing.

But it wasn’t only people who worked on the land paying attention to these changes, over time I began to realise that signs of spring were part of many island conversations.

It wasn’t until I had experienced my first full winter in Shetland that I began to understand these relationships more.

Walking in a Shetland summer is a cacophony of bird sound, the landscape alive with skylark, curlew and drumming snipe.

By the sea, calls of kittiwake, guillemot, razorbill and many more echo off the sandstone cliffs. As summer moves towards autumn the the days begin to shorten, wildflowers stop growing and many bird species leave.

The change starts slowly, almost imperceptibly, until suddenly the world seems quieter.

There is so much I love about Shetland winters, the golden glow from the sun as it barely rises above the horizon, nights watching the northern lights dance or sitting by the fire as a storm rages outside, but after months of cold and darkness, I am always eager to welcome spring.

There are three key species that indicate the transition from winter to spring – shalder, laeverik and tammy norie, (oystercatcher, skylark and puffin)

Shalders are a familiar part of our summer landscapes. Their black and white forms can be seen in fields and on beaches. They are exceptionally prone to alarm, taking to the air, flapping in noisy, chaotic circles at the slightest hint of danger.

Their return to the islands is eagerly anticipated and widely discussed. Every year, when I hear the first one I feel excited but it is something more, something that is almost like relief. A reassurance that the year continues to turn, that light and warmth will return.

As I walked along the beach with a local artist, we heard shalder overhead. She described her reaction when she first sees them. "They are just one little bird but they make you feel so much. If we lived somewhere else would we have that eye for detail? Would we feel so such joy about one little bird? Not just one or two of us but a whole community."

Towards the end of March the first skylark are heard across the islands. For me the shalder brings the promise of winter’s end while the laeverik means spring is here.

I have never heard as many skylark as I have in Shetland. Their tiny bodies are often invisible against the vastness of sky and hill but the song of many birds carries far, merging with sunshine and wind.

When I think of being outside on a summer day, these lilting musical notes are the sound that first comes to mind. As I spoke to people about their memories of peat cutting, the skylark featured in almost all stories.

That a fine day with larks overhead could transform a difficult job into something beautiful. For many who continue the peat cutting tradition, they are eager to share these experiences with the next generation, so their children can enjoy the magic of summer days in the hill.

By the time we see puffins, spring is truly beginning, with daylight extending later into each day and the first wildflowers bringing colour to the hill.

Puffins spend their winters at sea, appearing back on Shetland’s cliffs from mid-April to breed. Pairs mate for life, returning to the same burrow each year.

One of my favourite things is to sit by the cliffs soon after the puffins have arrived and watch pairs reunite after a winter apart. They engage in courtship behaviours, rubbing beaks to re-establish their bond. The noise and enthusiasm of such displays catches the attention of other birds and the courting couple will often be surrounded by several curious onlookers.

Puffins with beaks full of dry grass disappear underground and clouds of dust fly as burrows are excavated and improved as they make a home for the next generation.

Now, after living in Shetland for eight years, it feels as though my senses have been reattuned. That I look for, and notice, the subtle changes in light, sound and life around me in a way that I hadn’t before.

As I write we're still between seasons, and I know it is sometime yet before true spring returns – but the shalder are here and the sun rises a little higher each day changing the light from the warm tones of winter to the clear, crisp light of spring.