When people remember holidays, they usually remember what they saw.

Photographs prove it.

We point cameras at sunsets. At cliffs. At landmarks. At the people we love.

We try to capture the view.

But when I think about our holiday in Flamborough Head, I don’t think the photographs tell the whole story.

Because this holiday had a soundtrack.

And it wasn’t music.

It was birds.

The first thing I noticed was the sea.

Not seeing it.
Hearing it.

The constant crashing against the cliffs below.

Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes dramatic.
Always there.

A steady reminder that the coastline was alive even when I couldn’t see it.

Then there were the gulls.
Loud.
Opinionated.
Entirely convinced that every situation required their involvement.

Even if that involvement consisted solely of shouting.

But the real stars of the soundtrack were waiting on the cliffs.

Guillemots.
Thousands of them.
Everywhere.
Calling constantly.

The cliffs seemed to vibrate with noise.

It wasn’t peaceful.
It wasn’t relaxing.
It was organised chaos.

A city made entirely of birds.

And somewhere amongst all that noise were the puffins.

I had always imagined puffins as quiet little birds.

Polite birds.

Birds that minded their own business.

I was wrong.

At night, the cliffs came alive with conversations.

Or arguments.
It was difficult to tell.

The guillemots would begin calling.
Then the puffins would respond.
Honking.
Grumbling.
Complaining.

The whole thing sounded less like wildlife and more like a neighbourhood dispute.

In my imagination, the conversations went something like this:

“Keep your beak out of my burrow.”
“Your puffling is too loud.”
“You’ve blocked my entrance again.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“It was definitely you.”

Every evening, we listened.

Not because we understood what they were saying.
But because it felt like we were sharing the cliffs with them.

Not observing them.
Living alongside them.

Then there was the weather.

Yorkshire weather rarely arrives quietly.

Rain hammered against caravan windows.
Wind rattled doors.
Thunder rolled across the coastline.

At times it felt less like a holiday and more like a negotiation with the elements.

Yet somehow those sounds became part of the experience too.

Even now, when I look at the photographs, I don’t just remember what I saw.

I remember what I heard.

The sea.
The rain.
The gulls.
The guillemots.
The ridiculous little puffins complaining from their burrows.

Every holiday has memories.

This one had a soundtrack.

And even now, I can still hear it.

— Frost ❄️