The search for Orkney’s rarest species

Drawing from his book ‘Endemic’, James Harding-Morris – a passionate nature enthusiast and now author – travels to the Orkney Islands in search of two of Britain’s rarest species; the elusive Orkney vole and the Scottish Primrose…

The Scottish Primrose and the Orkney Vole aren’t exactly household names, even in naturalist circles. One is a dainty scrap of magenta that clings to cliffs and grazed turf in the far north; the other is a chubby, short-tailed rodent that lives only on Orkney — and both are found nowhere else on Earth. But for me, these two species were more than enough reason enough to head north, all the way to the windswept archipelago of Orkney, on a research trip for my book Endemic.

It was at Yesnaby that we found our target species: the Scottish Primrose. This tiny plant could easily be described as one of Britain’s most beautiful wildflowers. Imagine a regular primrose, then shrink it to a quarter the size and dye it a vivid, magenta-purple. It’s one of those species that feels magical to witness.

Endemic is a journey around Britain in search of the species found here and nowhere else. These are the animals and plants whose entire global story unfolds within these islands. I wanted to meet them in person where I could. So Orkney, with its unique vole and miniature primrose, was high on the list.

My friend Robert and I based ourselves in a small cottage on the West Mainland and started setting Longworth traps each night in what seemed like promising vole habitat, tussocky edges of trackways and fields. But after three nights with no success, my hopes were dipping. Sure, we’d seen an astounding array of wildlife; Hen Harriers from the kitchen window, an Orca off South Ronaldsay, Risso’s Dolphin off the barriers, even the rare Great Yellow Bumblebee by The Gloup. But of the vole? No sign.

I trawled through everything I could find online, hoping to spot some clue that I’d missed. And there it was, buried in a throwaway line: Orkney voles are often found around ruined buildings.

At first, before reaching Orkney, I’d dismissed that as an oddity. How often do you stumble across a ruin? But on Orkney, I’d seen several. Each drive seems to pass at least one romantic ruin. I remembered one particular site; a solitary chimney standing like a monument in a field not far from our cottage. We’d already driven past it several times, assuming it was nothing more than a photogenic relic. But now it was a possibility.

The next morning, we placed fresh bait in the traps — carrot chunks and a scatter of seed — and drove out. The chimney was all that remained of a building long gone, now surrounded by heaps of mossy rubble and a contorted dwarf pine that hinted at an old garden. There were still plants growing in an abandoned rockery: clumps of Londonpride, pale and frothy, and fat cushions of Roseroot, their acid-yellow blooms still holding on.

As we explored, Robert flipped over a loose board and found dry grass beneath it, pressed into little hollows. There were droppings too, bigger than a shrew’s, smaller than a rat’s. There were only three other contenders on Orkney: the house mouse (unlikely, away from occupied buildings), the wood mouse (possible), and the Orkney vole, the one we’d come for. We placed traps by the rockery, the chimney, and the board, and headed off to explore Yesnaby while we waited.

It was at Yesnaby that we found our other target species: the Scottish Primrose. In contrast to the vole, it wasn’t hard to find. We walked a few metres from the car across the tight turf above the cliffs and spotted a hint of deep purple. This tiny plant could easily be described as one of Britain’s most beautiful wildflowers. Lying flat on the sun-warmed turf to admire it, I was delighted by its scale; perfection in miniature. The whole plant was barely four centimetres tall, the flower smaller than a fingernail. Imagine a regular primrose, then shrink it to a quarter the size and dye it a vivid, magenta-purple. It’s one of those species that feels magical to witness.

We soon realised there were more around us than we’d expected; dozens, some already gone over, others still fresh, glittering like amethysts in the cropped coastal grass.

But for all the joy of finding the primrose, the vole remained elusive.

That evening, with the long Orkney twilight still smouldering on the horizon, we returned to the ruined house. If we’d caught anything, we didn’t want it sitting in a trap all night. I went straight to the rockery trap. Nothing. Robert called over from the chimney: “This one’s closed.”

Our hearts leapt, but upon weighing the trap gently in our hands we noticed that it didn’t feel any heavier. Could it have triggered accidentally? Still, we went back to the car to fetch the clear plastic bag we’d brought for safe viewing. Robert, gently, carefully, opened the trap over the bag, and at first there was just a brief shower of seed and hay, then – a blur of movement. A sleek, round body plopped into the bag and sat still. An Orkney vole.

To the untrained eye, it could pass for a chunky Field Vole. But there are no Field Voles on Orkney, nor, curiously, any in mainland Britain either. The Orkney Vole’s closest relatives live not in Scotland but in Belgium and northern France. Most researchers believe they arrived millennia ago, perhaps as stowaways with Neolithic travelers. However they got here, they’ve since diverged into a distinct form, now recognised as a unique subspecies.

It sat there, unbothered, rubbing its whiskers with its paws, its eyes glossy black like beads. Its ears were barely visible, sunk into its thick fur. We took a few quick pictures, then tilted the bag to release it. The vole vanished into the mossy rocks as swiftly as it had appeared.

The drive back was quietly jubilant. After days of uncertainty, we’d found what we came for. For Endemic, this was more than just a tick on a list, it was a chance to see, to feel, and to tell the story of an animal that exists only here, shaped by centuries of island isolation.

Endemic is a journey to meet the plants, animals, and fungi found nowhere else on Earth, from Orkney’s unique vole to the ghostly cave shrimps of Devon, from the ‘world’s rarest tree’ to the endangered Horrid Ground-weaver of Plymouth.

Along the way, I meet the passionate experts striving to save these species, many of which are at risk of vanishing forever, unnoticed.

If you’ve ever wondered what makes Britain’s natural history truly special, or want to learn about the extraordinary creatures quietly clinging on in the shadows, Endemic is your invitation to explore their stories, stories of wonder, weirdness, loss, and hope.

The vole, the primrose, and many more await you in the pages of Endemic. Available now.

By James Harding-Morris
James Harding-Morris is a passionate nature enthusiast with a lifelong love for exploring the natural world. Currently, James is on a mission to ensure that everyone in Britain and Ireland has the opportunity to fall in love with plants through his work with the BSBI.

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