There are many reasons why one would want to go to Scotland. There are mountain bird species, breeding seabirds and waders, spectacular scenery and a real sense of the wild. It is said that when the sun shines in Scotland, it is one of the greatest landscapes on earth. Unfortunately, the sun rarely shines in Scotland. The summer weather is notoriously unreliable, perhaps one reason why the most popular Scottish word is “dreich“, meaning dreary, gloomy, miserable, grey, depressing and devoid of sunshine. So when planning a family holiday, suggesting that we go to Scotland always held an unacceptably high degree of risk for precious time-off.
But then came the pandemic. Sunshine abroad did not feel right, whilst accommodation in the south and west of England rocketed in price, but still sold out months in advance. So, when a friend hinted that there may be some availability at his family’s house on the Isle of Skye, I began to look at Scotland once again.
Fortunately, the weather gods were on our side. We left southern England in a heatwave that traveled north with us throughout the first week of our trip. We passed through the highlands of mainland Scotland under blue skies with perfect visibility. Below, the Glen Coe range behind Lochan na h-Achlaise:
Our first day on the Isle of Skye was dawn till dusk sunshine. The highest peaks on Skye, the Black Cuillins, formed a backdrop to the view from our house. The views were unbelievable. Time to begin some local birding:
The most obvious local birds were Lesser Redpolls. Large family groups were noisy, conspicuous and everywhere. The valley rang with the “chett-chett” flight calls of adult birds. Below, juvenile Lesser Redpoll:
The local Stonechats appeared to have had a good breeding season, with many juvenile birds, being fed by adults:
The commonest local warbler was Willow Warbler, with only one Chiffchaff recorded. There were many juvenile Willow Warblers in the garden:
There was a singing Grasshopper Warbler in the field next door, Whitethroats in the bushes and a Sedge Warbler passed through mid-week. Wheatears could be seen on the nearby headlands, the adults moulting out of their breeding plumage:
There were small numbers of Rock Doves in the valley. One morning, a flock of five landed on the roof of our house:
There was at least one pair of Raven in the valley, but all the local crows were Hooded Crows:
There was a Sand Martin colony by the river. This must be one of the most north-westerly colonies in the UK, though I believe there are breeding birds on the southern Outer Hebrides which may take that title. Although the breeding season was coming to an end by late July, there were at least two active nests. This bird is returning to the colony with a full crop of insects:
The abundant gulls around the river and beach were Common Gulls, with only the occasion Herring, Lesser or Greater Black-backed Gulls joining them:
A flock of Greylag Geese spent the days alternating between feeding in the farmland opposite our house or bathing in the river:
In the evenings, the geese were joined by Red Deer, including this stag:
The shoreline held Rock Pipits, including this very worn adult:
Juvenile Rock Pipits have surprisingly bright pink legs and have yet to develop the long dark bill of adults:
There were small numbers of waders around the river. Small groups of vocal Oystercatcher and Curlew were common, with Ringed Plover on the beach. Common Sandpipers were seen frequently, by the sea and the river. Twice I saw Greenshank here, though they were always distant. I think the small number of dark-centered scapulars mean that this is a summer plumaged adult, so possibly a local breeder:
Below, this surprise wader flew around Loch Brittle and then back out to sea. It appeared nearly all-white in flight and when I first got onto it, as it flew directly towards me, I had no idea what it was. This oddly pale Whimbrel is either extremely heavily worn and abraded, or is a leucistic bird:
Further out in the loch were small groups of Red-throated Diver, up to 15 in total, though they were always very distant. I had good ‘scope views of these birds, which were very socially active. Below, this pair of Red-throated Divers submerged their bodies and cut through the water with necks held stiff and erect, driving away other birds:
Whilst walking up into the mountains or along the local peninsular, I often head a harsh “ka-ka-ka-ka” call, that initially I thought may be Red Grouse calling. Eventually I located the source of these calls, they were high-flying Red-throated Divers, coming in over the mountains to feed in Loch Brittle:
On one afternoon we flushed a Short-eared Owl from just by our feet, not far up the hillside behind our house:
Local insects included Golden-ringed Dragonflies:
This male Common Darter:
… and abundant Scotch Argus butterflies, a species only found in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland:
Common Scoters are sea ducks. Their winters are spent off the UK and Irish west coasts, they migrate to Scandinavia and Russia to breed in arctic pools in the permanent daylight of the northern summer. As such, they spend most of their lives well away from land-locked Oxfordshire. Small numbers of Common Scoters appear in Oxfordshire in spring, mid-summer and autumn (see here for a few more details). The majority of records come from the county’s largest waterbody, Farmoor Reservoir, as birds drop in during their migration. Common Scoter migrate at night and are perfectly camouflaged. The males are sooty black, the females dark brown. They will not be seen at night. Fortunately, they have evolved to make frequent and distinctive flight calls to each other. It is these calls that betray their presence in the night sky. And until up to 2019 that was the story of Common Scoters in the Oxfordshire. Then came the global covid pandemic.
Common Scoters, Bolt Tail, Devon, August 2020
By late March 2020, hundreds of birders were forced to be at home in the first national coronavirus lockdown. As news broke that a significant nocturnal movement of Common Scoter was occurring across northern England, lockdowned birders across the rest of the country began listening out for the flight calls of Common Scoters. Something was happening. It became apparent that Common Scoters not only used the Wirral-Humber flyway in northern England, but also the Severn-Thames flyway across southern England, and in fact, were being reported right across southern England as they migrated east overland (see here).
As early spring 2021 came around, Isaac West and I discussed the possibility of trying to hear Common Scoters on nocturnal migration from our local patch of the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow in Headington, Oxford. This area, comprising of a local nature reserve, a meadow and a golf course has no open water and until 8th March 2021 over 368 patch visits had only produced one species of duck: Mallard. The 8th March saw a flock of 7 Goosander flyover, a completely unexpected new species for the area and a remarkable record. Even so, trying to add a species of sea duck to this list seemed like complete madness. But the first covid spring of 2020 had taught us something: the skies are alive with the sound of scoters. Sometimes.
This week we spent three evenings, socially distanced, on Southfield Golf Course listening to the sky. Isaac prefers the expression “live noc-mig”, but I like “sky-listening”. Like “sea-watching”, it captures what you actually spend most of your time doing. Almost immediately I heard the sound of Wigeon passing overhead. A satisfying start and duck number three for the Lye Valley area! Shortly afterward, we heard the sound of a very loud scooter revving up and driving through east Oxford. But above it, the flight call of a Coot:
Scooter and Coot (at the 3-4 second mark). Nocturnal flight call, Southfield Golf Course, Oxford 23rd March 2021. Recording by Isaac West.
So we had scooter, but not scoter. The best moment of the evening was at 21:30 when the first Barn Owl for the area hissed at us:
The first 90-minute sky-listening session had produced three new species for the area. I was hooked. With little wind forecast for the next night, we tried again on Tuesday 23rd March. Very early on we both heard the pyu-pyu-pyu calls of a migrating Common Scoter flock. They were very distant, to the east, so distant in fact that Isaac’s recorder did not pick up the calls. Success, but we wanted proof. We wanted a recording. We tried again on Wednesday 24th March. It was desperately quiet, not even a Redwing called. By 21:30 we were both cold and about to give up, when the ringing calls of Common Scoter were heard again, this time from the west. The flock passed over, heading east, but was just loud enough to be audible on the recording:
Scooter and scoter were in the bag! You don’t need special equipment to hear these migrating flocks of sea ducks. Although distant, both the flocks we heard on the nights of 23rd and 24th March were quite clearly audible over the sounds of east Oxford. An overhead flock would be quite an experience.
Find a quiet spot on a still night, be familiar with the flight call (Teal and other duck species are also on the move at night and are also vocal) and be patient. We spent a total of 4.5 hours listening across three successive evenings to hear the two Common Scoter flocks pass over. Last year the major movement of Common Scoter across England occurred in the first week of April, so we may not be at peak scoter yet. The next few weeks provide a real opportunity to get Common Scoter, an arctic-breeding sea duck, on your Oxfordshire patch and garden lists. Incredible stuff.
With our house undergoing significant building work, we were relieved to be offered the use of a friend’s house during half-term. Even better, their house was right at the end of Fife Ness, on the Scottish east coast. My luck did not extend to having ideal winds, the coast was battered by relentless strong southerly and south-westerly winds all week, probably the least productive wind vectors for late autumn migration on the east coast.
Above, looking inland from the extreme tip of Fife Ness. The wooden hut is the Fife Bird Club seawatching hide, closed under covid regulations. Behind it is the lighthouse. Our house was just behind the lighthouse. The small woodland of Fife Ness Muir can just be seen on the right of this picture. Each morning I would check the woodland and have a brief seawatch.
We had a great week, though visible migration was very quiet all week. The best moment came as I completed a run in the late afternoon of October 26th. It was clear a torrential rainstorm was just about to break, the wind had picked up and the sky darkened. I picked up my pace to get back before the rain, sprinted back to our house and glanced up at the sky as I reached for the front door. As I did so, I noticed a swift flying in from the sea. Being late October, and being so far north, I was immediately aware that there was a chance that this bird may be a Pallid Swift. Fast-moving storms crossing the Atlantic pull up air from southern Europe, creating strong southerly airflows across Europe, which can displace swifts well north of their usual range. Martin Garner found a Pallid Swift at Flamborough on the same date in 2013, see here. My first reaction was that I would need photographs of this bird.
I kicked down the front door of the house and grabbed my camera, which I had left on the hall table (just in case I needed it quickly!). I was back outside in less than 5 seconds and to my relief, the bird was still in sight, just about overhead, still heading west along the coast, at a medium height. I took photographs of the bird, then watched it disappear inland. Thirty seconds later, the skies opened and a torrential downpour began and it rained until dark.
And the lack of light was the problem. I processed the pictures immediately, but no amount of altering exposure, contrast, brightness or shadows could produce any plumage features at all. If there was an eye-mask, a pale throat or mantle saddle, let alone pale edges to the body feathering, then they remained invisible to me. Another, possibly better, explanation is that this bird was an adult Common Swift, in which case it would appear pretty uniformly dark anyway. Either way, there simply was not enough light to get any useful plumage details. This bird remains on my eBird list as “swift sp”.
The second best bird was a juvenile Red-backed Shrike found by another birder in nearby Kilminning early in the week. It matched the autumn leaves nicely:
The rest of week, I enjoyed the local birds and kept an eye open for whatever migrants were around:
OystercatchersRedshank, Dulin and SanderlingOystercatcher, Knot and RedshankPurple SandpipersGrey SealStonechatCurlewFieldfare
Early one morning, the skies were suddenly filled with the calls of Pink-footed Geese. Nearly a thousand birds passed south down the coast, presumably heading for the north Norfolk coast.
We spent our final day on the coast at Tentsmuir Forest, a superb combination of beach, forest and Red Squirrels:
Richard Campey, Andy Last and I were meant to be in Shetland this week. However, with our accommodation cancelling our booking two weeks ago due to COVID cases rising and it being illegal in Scotland for members of more than two households to meet indoors, the message from Shetland was clear: come back after the pandemic is over! Richard opted to stay at home in Norfolk, so Andy and I looked around for somewhere nearer where we could still get a taste of autumn migration. With easterly winds and rain forecast all day Saturday, we opted to spend Sunday and Monday at Spurn Point on the Yorkshire coast and expectations were high! At the last minute, Dave Lowe and Wayne Paes, both from Oxford, also decided to travel independently to Spurn and stay locally. We would see both of them in the field over the two days.
On Sunday morning, one of the two Red-flanked Bluetails that were found the day before, was still around Cliff Farm, intermittently dropping down to take insects from the lawn. It was beginning to attract a small crowd, so we did not linger.
Instead, we worked our way around the Kilnsea area, checking bushes, fencelines and the sky for migrant birds. The conditions were perfect and autumn migration was in full swing: there was a constant stream of thrushes and finches passing overhead. Song Thrushes were most numerous, nearly 1000 arrived on Saturday, followed by Redwings. In contrast, very few Blackbirds and hardly any Fieldfares were on the move. Small flocks of Chaffinches, Linnets and Goldfinches passed over all morning and the sound of calling Siskins overhead was ubiquitous.
Dave Lowe and Andy Last on the Canal Path
Good birds came along regularly. We saw two Short-eared Owls, one roosting next to the Canal Path, the other sheltering from the wind behind a hedgerow:
Coming across good numbers of common migrants was a real treat. We saw a total of 3 Whinchat, but most places held Redstarts. It is always lovely to see Redstarts and was special to see Firetails and Bluetail on the same day:
There was a light scattering of Wheatears:
Mediterranean Gulls seem common at Spurn now, they were regular over the Humber:
This apporachable Golden Plover was on the path to Sammy’s Point:
The bushes there held a very late Wood Warbler, an unexpected surprise in October:
Siskins and Lesser Redpolls were everywhere at Sammy’s too, including birds feeding on the verges of the road at our feet:
On Saturday afternoon, we walked south, all the way down Spurn Point:
Andy, Wayne Paes and Dave at The Breach, Spurn Point.
The numbers of migrant Robins on the Point was amazing. There were hundreds, virtually every moving bird would turn out to be a Robin:
After Robins, the commonest birds on the Point were Song Thrushes. The birds arriving on the Yorkshire coast were very different from mainland birds. They had cold grey mantles and a clean, white ground colour to the breast, which seemed to glow white on a grey day:
Black Redstart
Warblers were represented by Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, the occasional Willow Warbler, one Garden Warbler and one Yellow-browed Warbler.
Chiffchafff, the commonest warbler species on The Point
Raptors seen were Kestrel, Sparrowhawk, Merlin and a fly-through Marsh Harrier, some of which were hunting the Chaffinches, Goldfinches, Siskin and Brambling in the bushes at the end of The Point.
ChaffinchBrambling: The sun sets as we return from the long trek out to The Point. Wet and tired, but happy!
Sunday was a quieter day for overhead migration, but we caught up with a couple of scarce birds. A mobile and elusive Red-breasted Flycatcher at Terminal Wood eventually showed itself, before flicking off through the wood again. The Barred Warbler, originally found by Dave Lowe 13 days ago but still present, could be glimpsed in Listening Dish Hedge:
I recorded 101 species over two days of superb autumn migration. The big find still eluded us, though one of my favourite moments took place in the Crown and Anchor car park on Sunday morning. We had all commented on how we had been expecting more Yellow-browed Warblers to be present, but as yet, we had not seen any. A heavy shower had passed through, followed by sunshine and then a rainbow:
I took the picture above before a movement in the tree on the right caught my eye. A Yellow-browed Warbler was feeding in the branches on the edge of the tree. I called to Dave “Yellow-browed Warbler”
“Where are you looking?” he replied.
I savoured my response: “At the end of the rainbow!” Without doubt, the first time I’ve used a rainbow as a point of reference. And at the end, a nice little pot of Siberian green and gold:
I have always enjoyed seeing Rose-coloured Starlings. Their bright pink and black plumage, the contrast with our Common Starlings and even their name, seems exotic and foreign. I saw my first bird in November 1987 in the wonderfully named Surrey village of Christmas Pie. My notes, taken as a feisty 17-year-old, are critical of how bright Rose-coloured Starlings appear in field guides compared to the dull bird that I was watching in Surrey in November. The distinction between their bright summer plumage and their dull winter feathering was clearly lost on me, as I watched the bird, somewhat disappointed.
I now know that in winter Rose-coloured Starlings lose their glossy black tones, especially on the head, where dull grey-pink feathering appears. The bill also changes colour from a sharply demarked black and pink, to a more uniform thrush-like yellow:
Adult winter plumaged Rose-coloured Starling, Oman, November 2015.
In the summer of 2002 I saw two different summer plumaged birds, one at Happisburgh in Norfolk and one at Dawlish Warren in Devon. Both birds were distant, but the Dawlish bird was memorably so. I found myself in the hide at Dawlish with a Yorkshireman, who had moved to Cape May. Richard Crossley went on to produce the photo guides to North American birds that bear his name. Richard was good company and as we chatted a report of a long-staying adult Rose-coloured Starling came through. It was on view on the roof of “the pink house in Starcross” some 1.3 miles (2.25km) distant across the estuary. We trained our ‘scopes on Starcross, found the pink house and were delighted to make out the (absolutely tiny) pink-and-black bird sitting on the tiles of the roof over a mile away! It is still probably the smallest bird that I have seen in the UK.
My next record of Rose-coloured Starling was a juvenile bird in early September 2003 on Lundy. This was a special moment for me as it was the first rarity that I had found in the UK and it was also my birthday. It is a double that I can recommend. Later that same month I saw another juvenile bird at Kelling Water Meadows in Norfolk, before a period of eight Rose-coloured Starlingless years began. This rosé drought was broken in style, by the appearance of two juvenile birds on Lundy at the same time in October 2011. One bird was even feeding in the very same field that I found my first juvenile bird in, eight years beforehand:
Juvenile Rose-coloured Starlings are not rose-coloured. They are the colour of the desert sand and rock where the adults breed in noisy colonies in the countries around the Caspian Sea. In flight the pale rump stands out, but perched they have none of the dramatic colour tones of summer plumaged adults:
Juveniles seem to vary a bit in their plumage tones. One of the two birds present in October 2011 was strikingly pale:
My next experience of the Rosy Pastor was in Oman in November 2015. Here the adults were in their dull pink winter plumage, but now I could appreciate their subtle tones and their funky undertail covert markings:
The adult summer plumaged bird that I saw yesterday in East Challow, Oxfordshire, was the 9th Rose-coloured Starling that I have seen in the UK, but the first summer plumaged adult since the Norfolk and Dawlish birds of 2002. It perched up on a telephone wire with the light behind it, but those pink and black tones still stood out:
I’m still waiting for really good views of an adult summer bird, but its good to have something to look forward to.
I spent Friday in north Norfolk with Richard Campey, who lives and works near the coast. It was a relaxed day, with some morning sunshine, before showers moved in from the south-west during the afternoon. We didn’t travel out of north-west Norfolk and saw nearly 70 species without really trying.
Barn Owls were very obvious, perhaps after rain preventing them from hunting last night. We saw at least 6 during the day, including this early morning bird, perched on the way to Holkham Bay, our first stop after Richard had dropped off his son at work.
An area of the marsh at Holkham has been fenced off to allow regeneration of the saltmarsh. This area has been attracting Shorelark this winter. When we arrived 4 birds were right in the middle of fenced off area, but as we watched and waited they worked their way over towards us. Eventually, we had superb views in lovely early morning sunlight:
There were also at least 40 Snow Bunting on the saltmarsh, with over 1000 Common Scoter, 5 Red-breasted Merganser, 4 Long-tailed Duck and 2 Great Crested Grebes on the sea.
As always, the skies and fields of north Norfolk were filled with thousands of Pink-footed Geese, some quite close :
The Rough-legged Buzzard at Wells announced itself by putting up hundreds of Lapwing, Golden Plover and thousands of duck. We had superb ‘scope views of it hunting in front of the pines and frequently hovering before it returned to its regular perch on a building viewable from the road:
The sunshine after yesterday’s rain had brought out the raptors with lots of Kestrels, Marsh Harriers, Common Buzzards and a Sparrowhawk all seen throughout the day.
A wintering Black-necked Grebe on Holkham Hall lake was a nice addition to the day list:
Mr Campey at Holkham Hall
The afternoon saw a change in the weather, with regular heavy rain showers. As darkness fell we popped in to see if the Eastern Yellow Wagtail was about still about, as it’s favourite dung piles are only 10 minutes from Richard’s house. We discovered that it hadn’t been seen in over two hours, so called it a day and went back to Richard’s for afternoon tea. Hard-core birding it wasn’t, but it was a superb chilled-out day with a good friend. We finished the day as we had begun it, with a Barn Owl. We watched this bird hunting by the road near Sedgeford. On one occasion it hovered right above our car, starring down at us, providing the sort of view that is the last thing that countless mice and voles ever see. They are fabulous birds:
This blog post describes three remarkable moments from our trip to Shetland in early October 2019. One reason we planned the trip was as part of the celebrations for my 50th birthday. I also had a party at the Jericho Tavern in Oxford, where I forced my guests to come in fancy-dress as pop stars. It was a superb evening and Andy and Dave took up the challenge too. Unfortunately, their experience of walking through Oxford dressed as Elvis and John Travolta (“Grease” style) made them swear to get fancy-dress revenge upon me. And as it turns out, revenge is a dish best served cold. As I discovered at dawn on the top of Sumburgh Head.
The afternoon before had been written off by the arrival of Hurricane Lorenzo. Gale force south-easterly winds lashed the islands, with horizontal rain from lunchtime until midnight. We sheltered inside our accommodation in Lerwick with only hot food and fine wine for sustenance. After dinner Dave presented me with a copy of the Birds of Shetland, with some handwritten messages from the group, a fabulous, thoughtful and touching present. “But to every ying, there is a yang” said Dave ominously, “to every pleasure, pain“. He then produced a carrier bag and placed it on the table. Inside was the John Travolta costume from my party, Saturday Night Fever style. “Tomorrow is going to be a great bird day. What could be better than finding a rare bird on Shetland… whilst you are dressed as John Travolta?” I had quite liked the sound of the first two-thirds of that sentence. The last third made my blood run cold. A number of options flashed through my mind, including running to the car, driving to Sumburgh and getting the first plane back to the mainland. Except there were no flights. Thanks Lorenzo. I was trapped in a room with a group of four men who were intent on forcing me to dress up as a 70s disco icon. And then go birding. On Shetland in October. The morning after a south-easterly gale. This was cruel beyond any reason. I did the only thing I could. I capitulated.
The next morning, we were up and dressed at the agreed time of 6am. It was still dark. We were all aware that today could be the big day. We had agreed to start at the quarries at Sumburgh Head and then work our way north, checking areas with cover as we went. Under my waterproof trousers, I was acutely aware that I was wearing the tightest pair of white flares ever worn by a human being. Under my waterproof jacket and fleece, a black shirt and white waistcoat acted as my base layer. They had not relented. My fate was sealed.
We drove south, the first light revealing a clear, but cold Shetland dawn. My costume underneath my outer layers was surprisingly bearable. We stopped at the quarries and appeared as normal birders. We flushed a Woodcock, found many fresh-in Goldcrests and Robins, plus the usual Twite, Rock Pipits, Curlew and Rock Doves. Then it was time. We climbed the steep path up to the lighthouse at the top of Sumburgh Head. I was about to make Shetland birding history, but not in any way that I would have ever predicted. Or indeed, in any way that any sane, functioning mind would have predicted.
As is often the way with fancy dress, once you put the wig on, you feel safe. You are not easily recognisable. You can begin to settle into the role of your character. Being John Travolta on stage, in a club with lights and music was comparably easy. You are a creature in his natural habitat: the disco. Becoming John Travolta when you are being forced to strip by the outside of a lighthouse on the southern tip of Shetland is a different game entirely. My changing room was the whitewashed external wall of a lighthouse, in a cold force five south-easterly. My mirror was my reflection in the lighthouse keeper’s window. My music was the sounds of thrushes coming in off the sea and landing in the fields below us. Imagine my shock when I realised that the image that I thought was my reflection in the window, was actually the face of the lighthouse keeper looking out at me. Then imagine his horror too. I put the wig on and prepared to face my hostage-takers.
People involved in road traffic accidents consistently describe a phenomena whereby time appears to rapidly slow down as the point of impact approaches. The actual moment of impact may take only a fraction of a second, but the consequences and the damage done can take a lifetime to come to terms with. I strode out on to the upper car park at Sumburgh Head, with Shetland stretching away to the north, beautifully lit by the rising sun. My hostage-takers had both video and still cameras at the ready. Jason hit play. The familiar sounds of Stayin’ Alive drifted across the car park. Time began to slow down.
Tom Travolta points out a passing Ring Ouzel.
Afterwards, I was allowed to change back into my birding gear. We then returned to the serious business of the day: finding birds.
Two: Otter
On the far side of Bressay, an island just across the water to the east of Lerwick, there is Noss. We saw few birds there but had a lovely encounter with three Otters. Mark found them first of all, calling loudly from the shoreline and playing in the low rocks at the tideline. A little while later Andy, Dave and I had these views as they fed on the east shore of Bressay. They are fantastic, dynamic animals:
Three: Orca
As we began our final full day, Thursday 12th October, things felt a little flat. Not only was the trip nearly at an end, but the winds had been less productive over the previous few days and we had seen most of the long-staying birds that we wanted too. We began by checking out a small plantation near Twatt. Apparently the name comes from the Old Norse þveit, meaning ‘small parcel of land’. So there you go. Mark pointed out a passing Short-eared Owl and our only Sparrowhawk of the trip flapped and glided alongside our car. The obligatory photograph of the village sign followed:
(l-r) Mark, taking one for the team, Jason, Dave, Andy and myself.
We were wondering what to do next, when news broke that an Orca pod had been sighted swimming into Busta Voe, towards Brae at the head of the sea-loch. We were all keen to see Orca and we were only 25 minutes away. We took the road to Voe, then the coast road up towards Brae. We had a quick scan from the loch-head, didn’t see anything, but hoped that we could intercept the pod as they exited Busta Voe past the Wethersta peninsular.
We scanned from the end of the road, without success. Then a vehicle filled with birders pulled up rapidly. “They are coming this way!“. There was only one thing for it: I had to get to the end of the peninsular as quickly as possible. I ran the 600m out to the end of the point, a nice test for my recovering hip stress fracture. Unfortunately, I should have probably stayed with the others at the end of the road. Their extra height and more pairs of eyes got them onto the Orca pod on the very far shore of the loch before I did. By the time I got onto them, they were very distant:
Orca and Orca blow just visible behind the fish farm.
There was some pleasure in watching these huge animals (technically they are dolphins, not whales) make their way out towards the open sea, but we were all left wanting more. Reasoning that they would travel around the south shore of Muckle Roe, they would then have a choice: north or south. We gambled north and drove up to the wonderfully named Mavis Grind in the hope of seeing the pod as they headed north. They never appeared, although there was a report of Orca off the “top end” of Muckle Roe, so maybe our hunch that the Orca had headed north was right after all. The trail went cold. We retraced our steps and headed to Sandwick, where I had one of the less meaningful Bluethroat experiences of my life.
We were just starting to consider our options again when more Orca news came through. The pod was off Hillswick – they had gone north! “Drive like you stole it” Jason ordered Andy, who as always was the model of calm at the wheel. We had 45 minutes or so before we arrived at the base of the Eshaness peninsular. This gave us time to speculate. We wanted to get ahead of the pod and watch them go past, not keep chasing them. We considered many options but eventually settled on Eashaness Lighthouse right on the end of the peninsular. The map below shows the route the Orca pod had taken during the day, we hoped that they would continue around the headland and pass below us.
The views from Eashaness were stunning. It would be incredible to see Orca pass by from up there and you would be looking down on them too. We waited and waited some more, but no Orca. Were we too late or too early? We felt we needed more information. We had noticed a number of people looking out at various points as we traveled along the headland. It seemed sensible to see if there had been any more sightings.
As we approached Braewick, we could see some impressive rock formations offshore. We could also see people jumping from cars and putting up telescopes… did they have something? No, but the Orca pod had just left the bay around the coast and were apparently heading this way. Phew, we hadn’t missed them altogether.
The Drongs, as viewed from Braewick, 5km away.
We waited for the pod to appear around the corner of a large offshore rock called The Runk. Finally, a woman on our right said “There they are!” and in our ‘scopes we could make out the huge fin of the adult male Orca.
The ‘scope views were nice, but these were distant views of a pod of four Orca. Afterwards, I measured on the map and found out that we were 2km away from the pod, who were themselves 2km in front of The Drongs:
Gradually the Orca pod worked their way across the bay, into an increasing westerly gale. I could see a headland to the west. Could we get there? I went back to the car. A combination of a local road to Tangwick and the Right to Roam seemed to indicate to me that we could. We parked up and scrambled out along the low flat headland of No Ness. No Nessie maybe, but hopefully some Orca.
Arriving at the tip of No Ness, we scanned the sea. Had they gone past, were we too late? I was scanning straight out and to the west, but it was Andy who found the Orca pod. They were almost behind us and coming straight towards us!
This was an incredible moment. We had spent all day chasing the pod, with only distant views. We were now perfectly positioned. The Orca pod was going to pass right in front of us in our last hour of daylight, on the final day of the trip. We could sit back and enjoy the experience. A Purple Sandpiper flew in to join us too. The Orca did not disappoint.
I even took the time to take some video as these spectacular beasts passed only about 100m away from us, into the setting sun. We could clearly see the calf with it’s parents, only three months old and all black-and-tan. We sat in silence as the pod passed the end of the point and continued heading west. It was an epic finale to an absolutely superb week. Thank you Andy, Dave, Jason, Mark and Shetland for an unforgettable birthday present.
Me, elated, post-Orca. Dave on the rocks, far left. Ecstatic group selfie, post-Orca.
Shetland is a fantastic place to see birds from all over the world. We saw birds from North America, Russia, Siberia and from Mediterranean Europe. All in one week. This is one of the reasons that Shetland attracts birders every autumn. You never know what you may see and it could have come from just about anywhere on the planet. And that very realisation is exciting every single morning and keeps one’s interest up throughout the day. That and caffeine. They are my equal favourite drugs.
Jason and I in a wet Geosetter.
This blog post documents some of the rarer bird species that we saw in Shetland in early October 2019. First, two American waders with very similar breeding distributions, Semipalmated Sandpiper and American Golden Plover:
A juvenile Semipalmated Sandpiper was found on the beach at Grutness, south Mainland, on 28th September and was still present on our first full day, October 4th. It was part of a small wader flock that also contained Dunlin, Sanderling, Ringed Plover. It was noticeably smaller than all those species:
Dunlin (left) and Semipalmated Sandpiper (right)Sanderling, Semi-p, Dunlin. We had great views of the bird, a quite long-billed individual, in early evening sunlight.Palmation alert! The partial webbing between the front three toes is visible here. This feature is only present on this species and Western Sandpiper. It is not easy being small. Here the Semipalmated Sandpiper is taking evasive action to avoid a fast-moving juvenile Ringed Plover. So fast, that the plover is a blur even at 1/1250 of a second exposure. On the sandpiper, the dark centres to the upper two rows of scapulars create a dark band on the upperparts, visible here from behind. The pale fringes to these feathers are narrow, so that there are none of the strong white mantle and scapular lines seen on Little Stint.
The Semipalmated Sandpiper was a juvenile bird, that remained for two days after we saw it. It seems a fair bet that this bird was hatched in the North American Arctic in the summer and was then was caught up in an easterly moving airflow which brought it to Shetland.
The other North American wader species that we saw was an adult American Golden Plover. This bird arrived at Cullivoe in north Yell on 1st September. We caught up with it on 9th October. It is widely assumed that adult American birds are more likely to have crossed the Atlantic the previous autumn as juvenile birds. They have then remained on the wrong side of the pond, presumably associating with European Golden Plovers.
We went to see the bird on Yell, but without much real hope of locating it. There is a lot of suitable habitat and a lot of Golden Plover flocks. We were scanning through a large flock on the crest of a hill when Dave located a summer plumaged plover at the bottom of the valley. It was distant at first, but even at long range the white supercilium and long white flank markings were visible:
The plover flock was then spooked (not by me Dave!) and took flight. Fortunately for us, they flew straight at us and landed in the field in front of us:
Here, even though it was a bit dark for really nice pictures, the ‘scope views were fabulous. The long wings, extending over the tail were visible, and we could appreciate the smaller size and slimmer build. The black extended onto the undertail coverts and the white shawl expanded into two prominent white areas, which were especially visible when the bird was viewed head-on. The overall white pattern reminded me of a judge’s wig:
Second, a tale of two Stonechats. Both from the east, one possibly from a long way east: Siberian and Stejneger’s Stonechats:
Our first Siberian Stonechat played cat and mouse for a while. After 45 minutes searching, we had returned to the car for food when news broke that it had been relocated in the oat field, seen on the left in the picture above. It remained distant and elusive, spending the majority of its time on the ground feeding, only sitting up occasionally:
Later in the week, we saw another stonechat species on Unst. Originally identified as a Siberian Stonechat, this bird is now suspected to be a Stejneger’s Stonechat, potentially the fourth for Britain. It was even more distant than the Siberian Stonechat. It appeared darker, especially on the upperparts. The white throat was clearly demarked from the orange underparts, rendering it slightly Whinchat-like.
The inner underwing coverts were extensively black, much more so than the Siberian Stonechat at Brake, so presumably this bird is a male:
The rump is a key feature and through the ‘scope we could easily make out the deep apricot colouration. Making out markings on the rump was harder. I nearly captured a picture of the bird in flight, see below, but as the bird was pretty distant it is a miracle we have any pictures at all:
This bird was trapped and ringed two days after we saw it, so there should be some DNA confirmation of its identity before too long.
Finally, three birds from southern Europe, again with arguably similar breeding distributions. All three of these species breed in Mediterranean Europe and winter further south, in Africa or the Middle East. None should be on the Northern Islands in October:
The European Bee-eater was discovered on 29th September, the Short-toed Lark on 4th October and Western Bonelli’s Warbler on 5th October. Bee-eaters are a feast of colours, the yellow throat patch is conspicuous at some range. This bird would perch out of the wind behind houses at Ollaberry, then sail away to catch bees. We wondered what effect that this may have on the local bee population. Jason quipped, in sympathy, “we’ve made honey in this valley for 150 years!“, to which I added “…until the winged destroyer came!” But, the devastation of the local honey industry apart, it is always a pleasure to see a Bee-eater. Every feather tract is a different, rainbow bright, colour:
European Bee-eater at Ollaberry, Mainland.
The Short-toed Lark proved the hardest to get good views of, not least because we saw it as the outer fringes of Hurricane Lorenzo swept in. I could hardly hold my camera lens horizontal in increasing gale-force south-easterly winds. It is a testament to modern camera equipment that there is any sort of picture at all:
Rock Pipit hunkering down with Short-toed Lark.
The final bird brought us into the company of a number of other birders for the only time in our week on Shetland. Being near other birders is something none of us really enjoy, we are more go-out-on-your-own kind of guys. We barely tolerated each other over the course of the week. And we know that the public sometimes struggles with the behaviour of large groups of birders too. However, we saw no conflict with the local population. In fact, most people were open and friendly towards us. “Are you going to see some fantastic wee birdie?” asked one of the passengers on a local ferry, in a thick Shetland accent. He then showed us a picture of a bird he had taken in his Shetland garden. A few looks were exchanged as we in the back of the car speculated on what he may have photographed. Guesses ranged from Long-tailed Duck to Siberian Blue Robin. But no… a Shetland Wren. Fortunately.
The sign below was the only indication of conflict that we came across. This notice was stuck to the inside of a vehicle parked outside a house at Baltasound, Unst, next to Britains’s most northerly Post Office.
There is a decent area of scrub behind these buildings. The owners had understandably got fed up with birders roaming around their garden. The famous “Right to Roam” in Scotland, brought in by the Land Reform Act 2003, gives everyone rights of access over land and inland water throughout Scotland for recreational purposes, as long as they behave responsibly. Technically birders could go anywhere looking for birds. The real question is whether they should. Respect for the property owners seems only sensible.
One afternoon we had decided to head out to the west coast to see if we could locate any Orca. A pod had been reported regularly in the week before we left, but sightings had dried up almost as soon as we arrived in Shetland. Andy suggested that we drive to West Burra, where the Orca pod had been seen last week. As we headed south news broke that a Bonelli’s Warbler had been found… on West Burra. It would seem rude not to pop in and say hello.
We were aware that there would be other birders present, but none of us had any experience of twitches on Shetland, so we had no idea of how many people turn up. We had a sweepstake on the number of birders we would see, guesses ranged from 8 to 28. As we pulled up, we could see that the bird had attracted some interest:
In no time there were over 50 people present, but many knew each other and a few well known Shetland names were there too, plus Paul and Vicky Wren from Oxfordshire. Social niceties were put to one side when the Western Bonelli’s Warbler appeared in the hedge surrounding the house. Through the bare branches, a ghostly pale face appeared, the dark eye standing out against the pale head feathers:
As the bird emerged, it appeared nearly pure white from the front:
As it worked it’s way towards the sun-lit side of the hedge, the upperpart colouration could be appreciated. the bright yellow-green fringing to the flight feathers and tail bases really stood out:
The Bonelli’s Warbler then worked it’s way around towards a bath that was being used a water trough. The bird popped out of the hedge and perched on the bath. This enabled me to utter one of the more unusual sentences that I have uttered in my life: “Bonelli’s on the bath”. It then defecated and dropped back into the hedge. The two birders below rushed over to try to collect the poo sample for DNA testing. Such is the way of modern birding.
Next, the final instalment: three extraordinary moments on Shetland.
This post describes some of the scarcer species that we saw on Shetland, ones that we did not see every day, but not species that count as Rare or Extraordinary Moments. These are covered in the next two blog posts. We got lucky: we saw Woodpigeon and Stock Dove in the same week. Not exactly the birds that we came here for, but unusual in Shetland terms. Our policy was to try to find our own birds, ideally slightly more scarce than the two species mentioned above, but we would also travel on news if something good turned up. Our days began by choosing which habitat we would check. We scoured fields and fences…
Mark and Dave at Pool of Virkie
… walked through iris beds, ditches and wet patches. Any tree cover we came across, we checked for migrants. Virtually every patch had a Yellow-browed Warbler. We walked along headlands, alongside dry stone walls and up and down the burns. We birded from first light to last. All in all, I would say we were pretty thorough. And we did find a number of scarce species.
Andy, birding at the end of the rainbow on Garths Ness, south Mainland.
But rare birds are rare for a reason: they do not occur often. As the remnants of Hurricane Lorenzo sucked air from Asia and pulled it towards Shetland, expectation levels began to rise. We spent the afternoon of Sunday 6th October on Unst, right at the top of Shetland, watching Yellow-browed Warblers fizzing past. I located Britain’s most northerly Whinchat at Skaw, an Otter ran across the road in front of us near Norwick and then we began to head back to base, to Lerwick. At about 5:30pm, as we took the ferry from Belmont, Unst to Gutcher on Yell, a small piece of birding history was being made some 10km away in a plantation on nearby Fetlar: Andrew Tongue had just found Britain’s fourth Rufous-tailed Robin (see here). So near, yet so far. By the time news got out, it was dark and besides the bird was never seen again.
The following day we explored Geosetter, on the south-west coast as the easterly winds picked up. The rareometer was off the scale, we were at the right place, at the right time of year, in the right weather: there must be another monster out there somewhere? But despite our efforts, and those of many others too, we found nothing more than a few Goldcrests and the statutory Yellow-browed Warblers. Rare birds are rare. And very rare birds are very rare. I could go on, stop me when you have had enough. But the bottom line is that a big slice of luck is needed too. Just ask any of Andrew Tongue’s mates on Fetlar that evening.
Geosetter in October in easterly winds: it screams rare birds. Mark indicating exactly how many Yellow-browed Warblers he had found in Geosetter
Later in the week, we had a productive exploration of the Lambaness peninsular on Unst. Tramping the wet patches and burns produced 3 Jack Snipe and there was a flock of about 50 Snow Bunting feeding on the cliff edge:
Snow Bunting are perfectly camouflaged on broken rocky ground. There are 19 in this picture.
I flushed a Lapland Bunting from the track, which Andy and I managed to pin down a little while later in the same spot:
Lapland Bunting, with a nice black bib.
Offshore, Red-throated Divers were pretty common. We saw two Black-throated Diver (off Unst and Eashaness, Mainland) and one distant summer plumaged Great Northern Diver, also off Eashaness.
There was a Pied Flycatcher in the only wood on Unst, at Halligarth and a Tree Sparrow amongst the feeding flock of 50 Mealy Redpoll, 40 Brambling, plus assorted House Sparrow,Siskin, Skylark, Meadow Pipit and Twite at Norwick. A Short-eared Owl flew past us at Twatt (more later, inevitably), as did our only Sparrowhawk of the trip a few minutes later.
We caught up with a first-winter male Red-backed Shrike on Friday 4th October near Cunningsburgh:
The Lesser Whitethroat, below, was seen in lovely early evening light in the larger of the two quarries at Sumburgh Head. I assume, perhaps inaccurately, that nearly all Lesser Whitethroats seen this late and this far north are generic “eastern” birds. Pinning them down to a specific subspecies is notoriously difficult, though Martin Garner helpfully addresses this in the Autumn part of his Challenge Series books. This bird is not particularly grey and white, but has much brown on the mantle, extending up through nape and onto the rear crown.
The tail pattern is important and fortunately I managed to get some sort of record of it as the bird darted up to take an insect from near the rock face:
The outer tail feathers, t6, are entirely white. The tip on the next outer tail feather, t5, has an obvious pale wedge. There is a hint of this on t4 too. I think this makes it a pretty good fit for a first calendar year Siberian Lesser Whitethroat, blythi, although without DNA and in-hand biometrics, we will never know for sure.
On our final full day we visited Sandness, on western Mainland to catch up with a Bluethroat, now present for its third day. We were lucky in the sense that this elusive bird was hopping about on the track when we arrived. But it remained distant, before disappearing. It was not reported again after our early afternoon sighting.
Next: Rare birds on Shetland. And after that, some Extraordinary Moments.
A trip to Shetland in October. Something I have been dreaming about for years. My 50th birthday gave me the excuse that I needed to visit the Northern Isles. Even better, I persuaded Andy Last, Dave Lowe, Jason Coppock and Mark Merritt to join me. We spent seven days birding there from October 3rd 2019. Shetland is bleak and beautiful, a series of coastal scenes and moorland, one opening up after the other as you travel around the islands.
Looking south, over Pool of Virkie and the airport towards Sumburgh Head in the background.The west coast
For the first two nights we were based at Toab, in the far south, just at the end of the runway and across the road from the Pool of Virkie. One unusual thing about Shetland is that the main road runs across the runway at Sumburgh. When planes take off and land, cars have to wait at the crossing:
After two nights in Toab we moved into the metropolis of Lerwick, which was centrally placed in the archipelago and has exciting things like shops and people. Over the course of seven full days of birding we visited the sites below:
We saw a respectable 103 species in seven days. Let’s start with the common species, those seen pretty much every day:
Greylag Geese. The only goose species we saw in the week, but nice to see wild birds. Rock Doves: real ones too! Golden Plover: the most abundant wader species, with smaller numbers of Lapwing, Snipe and beach waders.Great Skua: this species breeds on Shetland, a few were still hanging on, cruising around the coast and even over Loch of Spiggie. Black Guillemot: always a treat to see. The birds in Lerwick Harbour fish at point-blank range. Fulmar: surprisingly abundant. Whilst expected at cliffs or at sea, one could be in farmland or by one of the inland lakes and a Fulmar would swoop past, reminding us that we were on islands in the middle of the ocean. Gannet: any view of the sea would produce sightings of Gannet and Fulmar.
Goldcrest migration was one of the highlights of the trip for me. Whilst ‘crests in sycamores is symbolic of autumn migration…
…there were times when we came across Goldcrests on the ground, feeding in the grass, clearly fresh in after just crossing the North Sea. Some you could almost reach out and stroke. If you felt so inclined.
Yellow-browed Warbler: the commonest warbler on Shetland. Really. We saw more Yellow-browed Warblers than Chiffchaff, we all had the pleasure of finding multiple birds. This was the default warbler species. One afternoon at Norwick, in far north-east Unst, we walked down the road by the beach and a couple of Yellow-browed Warblers zipped past at knee-height. High on migration hormones, they were completely wired. They shot around us, landing on the fences, on the road, on a pile of bricks, they never paused for more than a second, they were completely adrenalised. It was an insight into the energy that migratory passerines can tap into, a real migration high:
Chiffchaff on the beach. The second commonest warbler species that we saw on Shetland. Blackcap, the third commonest warbler species we saw. This male has an interesting white tertial fringe. Or at least a white tertial fringe. Shetland Wren, of the race zetlandicus. Clearly darker and longer billed than mainland birds, the difference was more obvious than I expected. Starling: one of the commonest birds on the islands. There always seems to be flocks around, in whatever habitat we were in. Their wind blown calls constantly sounded like something far better. As this species is declining in southern England, it was sobering to be reminded of how common they can be. Brambling: a joyously common finch. The ploughed field at Norwick, Unst, attracted a flock of at least 40 Brambling, including a number of males. Black beauty: this male Brambling was feeding in the leaf litter at Michaelswood, near Aith. In low light levels when viewed from behind, they are perfectly camouflaged. I have not visited a place where Twite are one of the common finches, but that is the case in Shetland. We saw them on a daily basis. Mealy Redpoll were simply everywhere. Paler birds caused us much heartache. A number of Coue’s Arctic Redpolls were reported from Unst during our various visits, but they were notoriously hard to catch up with and we never came across birds with the full suite of characteristics: a small bill and face, a pale buff suffusion to the ground colour of the face and mantle, large white wing bars, limited flank streaking and at best, a central pencil mark on the undertail coverts. The birds above and below are clear Mealy Redpolls.
Next: scarcer species on Shetland. And a few surprises.
