1. Látrabjarg
bird cliffs, Iceland.
The famed white cliff s of Dover get their hue from
the chalk stratum. At Látrabjarg, the very far western extremity of Iceland (and Europe),
the rock faces – some over 400m high, and about 12km along – aren’t naturally
white. When you hear that these cliff s host the summer roosts of millions of
seabirds, you’ll guess what those stains are: an unbelievable quantity of
guano. The swirling, squawking cacophony of puffins, razorbills, guillemots,
fulmars, cormorants and kittiwakes is extraordinary; even if you’re not into
birdwatching, the comic antics of the puffins and the sheer scale of the mob
are mesmerising.
Access is
easiest with a car, though a bus runs three times weekly from June to August
from Isafjordur, the Westfjords region’s main town.
2. Monarch
butterfly roosts, Mexico.
Instinct is a curious thing.
How does a creature that lives only for brief weeks or months know how to find
its way to a spot thousands of kilometres away, without ever having been there
before? It’s not as if insects are great map-readers. Yet, somehow, countless millions
of monarch butterflies make the annual migration south from summer territory in
the USA and Canada to spend winter in Mexico’s oyamel
fir forests. Seeing clouds of these pretty orange, black and white insects
would be impressive enough, but they also roost on trees in numbers huge enough
to bend branches.
The
picturesque town of Angangueo, about 130km west
of Mexico City,
is a handy base for visits to El Rosario Butterfly Biosphere Reserve.
3. King
Penguin rookery, St Andrew Bay, South Georgia.
March of the Penguins is one of
those great art-house fi lms: strong, silent characters, for much of the movie
not a lot happens, then it’s over – but somehow it’s incredibly powerful. Which
is something you’d also say about penguin odour; you’ll certainly smell them
before you see them. But you’ll forget the stink when you see the rookery: over
a quarter of a million birds – big ones, too, reaching almost a metre tall –
mingle and trumpet, resplendent in their black tuxedos and orange collars. It’s
a scene that’s simultaneously hilarious, noble, cute and magnificent.
South Georgia
is commonly visited on voyages to the Antarctic Peninsula from Ushuaia in
Argentine Tierra del Fuego, via the Falkland Islands.
4. Great
migration, Serengeti National Park, Tanzania.
One wildebeest is amusing: a
shaggy, skinny cow with a head seemingly too narrow for a brain. But 1.3
million wildebeest – that’s unimaginably impressive. In a breathtaking
spectacle, particularly from above, vast herds of gnu sweep across the East African
savannah in an annual circuit, accompanied by hundreds of thousands of zebras,
gazelles and elands – and the predators that feed on the rumbling masses. The
wildebeest spend the December to May rainy season in the southern Serengeti,
nosing northwest before crossing into Kenya’s Masai Mara National Reserve.
Most dramatic is the mass crossing of the Grumeti River,
where crocodiles wait to snap up unlucky wildebeest.
The exact
timing of the migration varies each year, but the Grumeti crossing usually occurs
between May and July.
5. Brown bears
feasting, Alaska, USA
There’s nothing like the
flavour of flapping-fresh fish, straight from the river. Especially if you’re a
brown bear with a taste for dog salmon. From early summer, shimmering masses of
salmon return from their oceanic feeding grounds and head upriver to spawn;
when they hit rapids and small cataracts, they make easy prey for bears – it’s
a conveyor-belt sushi joint. At the falls on the McNeil
River, 1.5km upstream from its mouth
in southwestern Alaska,
huge browns, bulky from years of salmon feasts, gather to flip fish from the
stream.
Dozens of
bears can be spotted at any one time. Only 10 viewing permits are issued for
each day between June and August, allocated through a lottery; for details,
visit www.wildlife.alaska.gov.
6. Elephant
gathering, Sri Lanka.
When King Mahasen built the
Minneriya Tank, a vast reservoir, in the 3rd century AD, he probably wasn’t
thinking of animal welfare. Now the focal point of a national park, the lake
comes into its own as the dry season bites, with elephants trundling in from
reserves around the region. Forming enormous herds, they head to the tank for
the world’s biggest pool party, known simply as the Gathering, where 300 or
more thirsty pachyderms graze the lush grass, drink and play in the water. It’s
a unique opportunity to watch how elephants interact (noisily and boisterously,
as it turns out).
Elephant
numbers at Minneriya usually peak around August or September; jeep safaris
organised through local hotels get you close to the lakeshore action.
7. Bats of Dear Cave, Sarawak, Malaysia.
Head to Borneo’s Gunung Mulu
National Park to get two
superlatives for the price of one: the world’s most impressive bat gathering,
and the planet’s most gag-inducing stink. Sadly for those of a delicate
olfactory sensibility, it’s tricky to experience one without the other, and
three million wrinkle-lipped bats create a lot of poop. Rest assured though,
the spectacle is worth the stench. Settle into a viewing spot by the mouth of
this colossal cavern and wait for dusk: on some telepathic signal the bats come
flooding out as one snaking, coiling stream, heading off to hunt for airborne
bugs.
Deer Cave is visited by
daily guided tours from park headquarters, where there’s accommodation ranging
from hostel beds to garden rooms.
8. Orca
feeding, Valdés Peninsula, Argentina.
The orca, you might think, is
just a big, chubby dolphin. And dolphins are so cute and friendly. So why are
orca also called ‘killer whales’? Head to Punta Norte, on Argentina’s Valdés Peninsula,
and it becomes abundantly clear. The beach here is home to sea lions nursing
pups – favourite orca snacks. One group of orca has developed a unique strategy:
when they get peckish, they launch themselves from the surf right onto the
beach, grabbing a tasty pup before the next wave breaks and allows it to
wriggle back into the sea. It’s risky – stranding would be disastrous – but
breathtakingly dramatic to watch.
Sea lions pup
in January, so orca attacks mostly occur between February and April, three
hours either side of high tide.
9. Starlings
roosting, Somerset Levels, England.
Late afternoon on a misty
winter’s day, head to the wetlands of Westhay Moor National Nature Reserve. As
dusk falls, a patch of sky darkens; a cloud is gathering. But it’s behaving
strangely – ebbing and flowing, clumping and twisting – and it’s vast, an
expanse of black, shifting sinuously. It’s starlings, millions of them in a swirling
mass, gathered in a huge flock for safety, dipping to escape the attentions of
raptors. Finally, in one smooth flow, like a genie returning to its lamp, the
swarm gathers and swoops down to roost. And then you remember to breathe.
Westhay is 5km
northwest of Glastonbury, off the B3151; aim to arrive an hour before sunset to
watch the starlings roost.
10. Sardine
run, South Africa
You might think watching fish
is none too exciting – something for a computer screensaver, not an
unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. Well, it depends – if the fish are
part of a swirling, silvery mass stretching over 7km long, it gets a lot more
interesting. As millions upon millions of sardines dart and bunch their way
around the Eastern Cape and along the KwaZulu-Natal Coast, the waters boil with diving
gannets and cormorants, along with thousands of hunting seals, dolphins and
sharks. Whether you’re watching from the safety of a boat or snorkelling near
the embattled shoals, it’s a phenomenal sight.
The ‘sardine
run’ doesn’t happen every year, and its location can’t be predicted, but it
generally takes place between May and July.
