Ian's Images: Icelandic Puffins

Ingólfshöfði

I was in Iceland in June 2003, and on the Ingólfshöfði headland saw many seabirds including gannets, skuas and puffins. The sight of the puffins inspired me to write the piece below for a BBC Wildlife magazine competition. I had no camera with me on that wet day, but Juli Salvi did, and she took the excellent photo to the right.

I thought that it would be interesting to put some folklore into the writing, this then turned into a quest to find out more about the significance of puffins to the Icelanders. So I made contact with Sigurður Ægisson, who lives in Siglufjörður, the northernmost town in Iceland. It turned out that he had written about puffins in a book combining the biology, etymology and folklore of Icelandic birds: Ísfygla, published at Grenjaðarstaður, 1996. Sigurður found an Englishman, Robert Faulkner, to translate some of it and the result is below. Out of respect for their effort I have put in some effort of my own to try and render the Icelandic alphabet correctly.

Encounter in the atlantic mists

The path was steep and formed of loose, black volcanic sand. Two steps forward was followed by sliding one step back. It was difficult to tell how far we we would have to climb, as ahead the path disappeared into the fast moving mist. To the sides of the path the grass rippled in the wet wind that chilled our faces and tugged at our hair. The wind brought the taste of salt to our lips, for the sea was not far away. The sound of the waves on the shore below was dulled and muffled, a backdrop to our exertions.

We had arrived at the isolated headland rather incongruously, towed in a cattle trailer behind a study tractor. It was the best way across the black volcanic sand, washed as it was by tides and swept by strong winds from the Atlantic. The driver, Siggi, was a local farmer who had taken many people that way over the years, and he was now going to be our guide to the fauna.

Eventually the path lost its steep gradient and we were left standing in tussocky grass. A few yards away a large, brown streaked skua was sitting on the ground. It was not ignoring us. It was making harsh calls and looking directly at us. We walked around it and came to a small turf roofed shelter, and although constructed from driftwood, quite solidly made. It was built a century or so ago as an emergency shelter for sailors whose boats had been wrecked on the rocky coast, and still maintained. It looked quite cosy with its solid wooden benches and sturdy, well fitting door. Siggi then propped up a big board on which were painted pictures of the birdlife and spoke of their ways. He was a local man from Ingolfshofdi, and although he spoke in Icelandic his pride in the locality and its wildlife was obvious.

We walked through the wet grass a little further. It was then we saw what these cliffs were famous for. Standing stiffly upright, leaning against the strong blustery mist, were puffins. The short green grass at the top of the cliffs was dotted with a multitude of birds, looking out into the mist over the sea. The small black and white birds stood patiently, enduring all that the elements could throw at them. Then two or three of them ran down the grassy bank, and tipped forward over the cliffedge. At first gliding and then with their wings whirring they flew down to their real home, the sea below. What a different world they lived in. They might be of flesh and blood, and close enough to touch, but their world was elemental: water, air and rock forged in volcanic fire.

They looked out of place in their smart dinner jackets, but I felt out of place in my waterproof jacket and decidedly damp trousers. They acknowledged our existence by moving away when we got close, but there was no fear there. We who had travelled so far were not really relevant in their world, and they understood that. These cliffs and seas had been here for centuries, we were there for only a few minutes. What they were doing was no different from what their parents and their grandparents had done. So different from our own lives.

Puffins weren't just on the clifftops, they were on the menu in the restaurants. The local Icelanders have hunted the Puffin, which they also call “The Preacher”, for centuries with a device called a lundahafur, which looks like a very long lacrosse pole. Centuries ago in England puffins were considered a delicacy too, and were sold at the rate of three puffins for a penny. This is despite King Arthur being reincarnated as a raven, chough or puffin according to Cornish folk-lore, and frequenting his favourite haunts in Cornwall in one of these forms.

The nearest Puffin on the clifftop looked as if he was ignorant of restaurants .....he didn’t realise how tasty he could be - or did he? He looked up at me, making eye contact for a moment, and then leaned forward and ran through the short green grass to the cliffedge. There he leapt into the blustery mists. Wings whirring he descended for another baptism in the cold, deep ocean below. I followed his progress into the mist, closer and closer. I followed his small dark form as he rapidly diminished into the distance, and became lost to my sight in the greyness over the water. I had followed a flight that had been made a thousand times over that day already, and yet for me that journey had brought me closer to the spirit of the place than any exertions of my own.

Icelandic Folklore

By Sigurður Ægisson, translated by Robert Faulkner.

The puffin, or lundi, has been the most widely exploited of all sea-birds, throughout Icelandic history. The first written reference to it can be found early in the thirteenth century. It is thought that earliest hunting methods employed long sticks with metal crooks on their ends to simply drag birds - adult or chicks - out from their nesting holes. Sometimes there was a (metal) spade at the other end of these sticks, to dig up the birds if necessary. People in the Westmann Islands (which has one of the largest puffin populations in Iceland) called this tool grefill (a digger, from the Icelandic verb ad grafa = to dig). In East Skaftafell (South-East Iceland) it was called stingur (rod or sting, from the Icelandic verb ad stinga = to sting) and in Breiðafjörður (Western Iceland) goggur (the same word as used for a birds nose, i.e. bill or beak, here meaning a crook or a hook). Various other hunting methods appear to have been widespread, including hitting the puffin with a cudgel or paddle. It remains unclear when nets (put on the ground in puffin colonies, i.e. over the openings of the nesting holes) were first used to catch puffin; around the middle of the 18th century the method was unknown outside the island of Drangey on the north coast of Iceland. Soon though, this method became widespread and puffins were killed in such high numbers that a law was past on the 12th May, 1869, banning the hunting of puffin by nets.

In 1875 the "puffin pocket net" or lundaháfur (a long stick with a pocket net at one end) arrived in the Westmann Islands from the Faroes and soon this became, almost exclusively, the preferred implement for catching puffin. It was first employed in Skaftafell in 1876 and in the Eastern Fjords a little later, in Vigur in Ísafjörður (Western Fjords) just before the turn of the century, in Grímsey (north coast of Iceland) in 1913, in Breiðafjoörður in 1925 and at Skjálfanda Bay (Northern Iceland) just before 1950. It is estimated that around 150.000 to 200.000 puffin are still killed annually in Iceland.

Other names (folk-names) for this species include prófastur (dean or provost), prestur (reverend, minister, preacher or priest) - presumably because of their black and white plumage or "suit", and maybe their dignified facial or overall expression), and skjöldur (shield, most certainly because of the heavy, but thin, nose). It is also known as kolapiltur (coal-boy) - though it is not clear whether this refers to an adult bird (one winter) or just to chicks. The terms lundadrottning (puffin queen), lundakóngur (puffin king) and lundaprins (puffin prince) are used in some areas to refer to albino puffins. In the Westmann Islands the sexes were known as the cock and hen, whilst the chicks were known under various names such as (lunda)kofa, (lunda)pésa, (lunda)pysja, which seem to refer to their soft and fluffy down, and finally lundungi.

Icelandic folklore has little to say about the puffin except in connection with scorcery. It is said though, that like other alcids, puffins can predict bad weather, flying to land two or three days before the onset of northerly storms. Similarly, it was believed that puffins diving into the sea was a reliable indication of where best to fish - a belief held in Norway too. In the 19th century - and maybe before that - many people in Iceland thought that mice could not survive in puffin nesting colonies, because the soil had in some way become deadly for them. For that reason people used soil from puffin nesting grounds as a poison, when mice were abundant in and around their houses. It worked, they say!

In Scotland in the 19th century a man who appeared stupid was called a Tammie Norie - a reference to one of the puffin's pet names. Similarly, Tom Noddie was a name given to the bird in the Farne Islands, in the North Sea. Still in use, the nickname Coulter Neb, refers to the bird's unusual, multi-coloured beak. Some other names linked with that feature are bottlenose, sea parrot and sea bill. In Yorkshire it was known as the Flamborough head pilot.

In old England puffins were considered a delicious food, and were sold at the rate of three puffins for a penny. This is despite the fact that after his death, King Arthur was reincarnated as a raven, chough or puffin according to Cornish folk-lore, and he is said to frequent his favourite haunts in Cornwall in one of these forms. The Irish, however, did not eat puffins, as it was believed that the reincarnated spirits of monks lived within the birds. And maybe that has something to do with what came to be their Latin scientific name, as fratercula comes from middle-Latin "fraterculus" (monk), originally derived from "frater" (brother; "fratercula" means then, literally, "little brother"). It seems to refer to either a) the puffin's black and white colouring, b) its small size or c) that the bird appears almost to "put its hands together" as if praying. Arctica is derived form the Latin "arcticus" and from the Greek "arktikos" (northerly).

The Icelandic name lundi was known in the 13th century and appears in the famous book Snorra-Edda. It is thought to be related to the Icelandic words lend (the lower back or hips) and lund (literally the fillet of muscle running alongside the spine). This suggests the name is related to the puffin's physical appearance. Others though insist that the name refers to the puffin's bill (lundir = streaks or lines).

Some aborigines in the arctic (North-America) used to collect puffin bills and make them into a musical instrument, a shaker, and this was supposed to have magical healing power.

Icelandic Puffins
Home Notes	Ingólfshöfði I was in Iceland in June 2003, and on the Ingólfshöfði headland saw many seabirds including gannets, skuas and puffins. The sight of the puffins inspired me to write the piece below for a BBC Wildlife magazine competition. I had no camera with me on that wet day, but Juli Salvi did, and she took the excellent photo to the right. I thought that it would be interesting to put some folklore into the writing, this then turned into a quest to find out more about the significance of puffins to the Icelanders. So I made contact with Sigurður Ægisson, who lives in Siglufjörður, the northernmost town in Iceland. It turned out that he had written about puffins in a book combining the biology, etymology and folklore of Icelandic birds: Ísfygla, published at Grenjaðarstaður, 1996. Sigurður found an Englishman, Robert Faulkner, to translate some of it and the result is below. Out of respect for their effort I have put in some effort of my own to try and render the Icelandic alphabet correctly. Encounter in the atlantic mists The path was steep and formed of loose, black volcanic sand. Two steps forward was followed by sliding one step back. It was difficult to tell how far we we would have to climb, as ahead the path disappeared into the fast moving mist. To the sides of the path the grass rippled in the wet wind that chilled our faces and tugged at our hair. The wind brought the taste of salt to our lips, for the sea was not far away. The sound of the waves on the shore below was dulled and muffled, a backdrop to our exertions. We had arrived at the isolated headland rather incongruously, towed in a cattle trailer behind a study tractor. It was the best way across the black volcanic sand, washed as it was by tides and swept by strong winds from the Atlantic. The driver, Siggi, was a local farmer who had taken many people that way over the years, and he was now going to be our guide to the fauna. Eventually the path lost its steep gradient and we were left standing in tussocky grass. A few yards away a large, brown streaked skua was sitting on the ground. It was not ignoring us. It was making harsh calls and looking directly at us. We walked around it and came to a small turf roofed shelter, and although constructed from driftwood, quite solidly made. It was built a century or so ago as an emergency shelter for sailors whose boats had been wrecked on the rocky coast, and still maintained. It looked quite cosy with its solid wooden benches and sturdy, well fitting door. Siggi then propped up a big board on which were painted pictures of the birdlife and spoke of their ways. He was a local man from Ingolfshofdi, and although he spoke in Icelandic his pride in the locality and its wildlife was obvious. We walked through the wet grass a little further. It was then we saw what these cliffs were famous for. Standing stiffly upright, leaning against the strong blustery mist, were puffins. The short green grass at the top of the cliffs was dotted with a multitude of birds, looking out into the mist over the sea. The small black and white birds stood patiently, enduring all that the elements could throw at them. Then two or three of them ran down the grassy bank, and tipped forward over the cliffedge. At first gliding and then with their wings whirring they flew down to their real home, the sea below. What a different world they lived in. They might be of flesh and blood, and close enough to touch, but their world was elemental: water, air and rock forged in volcanic fire. They looked out of place in their smart dinner jackets, but I felt out of place in my waterproof jacket and decidedly damp trousers. They acknowledged our existence by moving away when we got close, but there was no fear there. We who had travelled so far were not really relevant in their world, and they understood that. These cliffs and seas had been here for centuries, we were there for only a few minutes. What they were doing was no different from what their parents and their grandparents had done. So different from our own lives. Puffins weren't just on the clifftops, they were on the menu in the restaurants. The local Icelanders have hunted the Puffin, which they also call “The Preacher”, for centuries with a device called a lundahafur, which looks like a very long lacrosse pole. Centuries ago in England puffins were considered a delicacy too, and were sold at the rate of three puffins for a penny. This is despite King Arthur being reincarnated as a raven, chough or puffin according to Cornish folk-lore, and frequenting his favourite haunts in Cornwall in one of these forms. The nearest Puffin on the clifftop looked as if he was ignorant of restaurants .....he didn’t realise how tasty he could be - or did he? He looked up at me, making eye contact for a moment, and then leaned forward and ran through the short green grass to the cliffedge. There he leapt into the blustery mists. Wings whirring he descended for another baptism in the cold, deep ocean below. I followed his progress into the mist, closer and closer. I followed his small dark form as he rapidly diminished into the distance, and became lost to my sight in the greyness over the water. I had followed a flight that had been made a thousand times over that day already, and yet for me that journey had brought me closer to the spirit of the place than any exertions of my own. Icelandic Folklore By Sigurður Ægisson, translated by Robert Faulkner. The puffin, or lundi, has been the most widely exploited of all sea-birds, throughout Icelandic history. The first written reference to it can be found early in the thirteenth century. It is thought that earliest hunting methods employed long sticks with metal crooks on their ends to simply drag birds - adult or chicks - out from their nesting holes. Sometimes there was a (metal) spade at the other end of these sticks, to dig up the birds if necessary. People in the Westmann Islands (which has one of the largest puffin populations in Iceland) called this tool grefill (a digger, from the Icelandic verb ad grafa = to dig). In East Skaftafell (South-East Iceland) it was called stingur (rod or sting, from the Icelandic verb ad stinga = to sting) and in Breiðafjörður (Western Iceland) goggur (the same word as used for a birds nose, i.e. bill or beak, here meaning a crook or a hook). Various other hunting methods appear to have been widespread, including hitting the puffin with a cudgel or paddle. It remains unclear when nets (put on the ground in puffin colonies, i.e. over the openings of the nesting holes) were first used to catch puffin; around the middle of the 18th century the method was unknown outside the island of Drangey on the north coast of Iceland. Soon though, this method became widespread and puffins were killed in such high numbers that a law was past on the 12th May, 1869, banning the hunting of puffin by nets. In 1875 the "puffin pocket net" or lundaháfur (a long stick with a pocket net at one end) arrived in the Westmann Islands from the Faroes and soon this became, almost exclusively, the preferred implement for catching puffin. It was first employed in Skaftafell in 1876 and in the Eastern Fjords a little later, in Vigur in Ísafjörður (Western Fjords) just before the turn of the century, in Grímsey (north coast of Iceland) in 1913, in Breiðafjoörður in 1925 and at Skjálfanda Bay (Northern Iceland) just before 1950. It is estimated that around 150.000 to 200.000 puffin are still killed annually in Iceland. Other names (folk-names) for this species include prófastur (dean or provost), prestur (reverend, minister, preacher or priest) - presumably because of their black and white plumage or "suit", and maybe their dignified facial or overall expression), and skjöldur (shield, most certainly because of the heavy, but thin, nose). It is also known as kolapiltur (coal-boy) - though it is not clear whether this refers to an adult bird (one winter) or just to chicks. The terms lundadrottning (puffin queen), lundakóngur (puffin king) and lundaprins (puffin prince) are used in some areas to refer to albino puffins. In the Westmann Islands the sexes were known as the cock and hen, whilst the chicks were known under various names such as (lunda)kofa, (lunda)pésa, (lunda)pysja, which seem to refer to their soft and fluffy down, and finally lundungi. Icelandic folklore has little to say about the puffin except in connection with scorcery. It is said though, that like other alcids, puffins can predict bad weather, flying to land two or three days before the onset of northerly storms. Similarly, it was believed that puffins diving into the sea was a reliable indication of where best to fish - a belief held in Norway too. In the 19th century - and maybe before that - many people in Iceland thought that mice could not survive in puffin nesting colonies, because the soil had in some way become deadly for them. For that reason people used soil from puffin nesting grounds as a poison, when mice were abundant in and around their houses. It worked, they say! In Scotland in the 19th century a man who appeared stupid was called a Tammie Norie - a reference to one of the puffin's pet names. Similarly, Tom Noddie was a name given to the bird in the Farne Islands, in the North Sea. Still in use, the nickname Coulter Neb, refers to the bird's unusual, multi-coloured beak. Some other names linked with that feature are bottlenose, sea parrot and sea bill. In Yorkshire it was known as the Flamborough head pilot. In old England puffins were considered a delicious food, and were sold at the rate of three puffins for a penny. This is despite the fact that after his death, King Arthur was reincarnated as a raven, chough or puffin according to Cornish folk-lore, and he is said to frequent his favourite haunts in Cornwall in one of these forms. The Irish, however, did not eat puffins, as it was believed that the reincarnated spirits of monks lived within the birds. And maybe that has something to do with what came to be their Latin scientific name, as fratercula comes from middle-Latin "fraterculus" (monk), originally derived from "frater" (brother; "fratercula" means then, literally, "little brother"). It seems to refer to either a) the puffin's black and white colouring, b) its small size or c) that the bird appears almost to "put its hands together" as if praying. Arctica is derived form the Latin "arcticus" and from the Greek "arktikos" (northerly). The Icelandic name lundi was known in the 13th century and appears in the famous book Snorra-Edda. It is thought to be related to the Icelandic words lend (the lower back or hips) and lund (literally the fillet of muscle running alongside the spine). This suggests the name is related to the puffin's physical appearance. Others though insist that the name refers to the puffin's bill (lundir = streaks or lines). Some aborigines in the arctic (North-America) used to collect puffin bills and make them into a musical instrument, a shaker, and this was supposed to have magical healing power.
Ian Hornby 2004