Category: Oxfordshire Birding

Out of the darkness and into the light

Let’s start with the good news: I am going to survive this. The bad news is that I had a terrible bike accident two weeks ago. I crashed on a high-speed descent and sustained serious soft tissue injuries that required 9 days in hospital and two rounds of surgery, including a skin graft on my right thigh. I am eternally grateful to my cycling companions (Michelle, Andy Last and Ben Sheldon) for administering first aid in pretty traumatic circumstances whilst we waited for the ambulance to arrive. 

Once the surgeons at the John Radcliffe in Oxford had finished their work, there was a five-day wait to ensure that my skin graft had taken. The vacuum dressings could not be removed during this period, so this was a straight five-day wait in a hospital bed. 

As I was unable to move or get up, I was fortunate to have a bed next to a window. The days blurred into each other, I spent hours alternating between watching clouds and trying to nap to fight the crushing sleep deprivation of being in hospital, when you are woken every two hours to have your vital signs assessed. 

But if you can see the sky, then you can see birds. A routine began to emerge. I began keeping a daily e-bird list of the species that I could identify from my hospital bed. The hospital has a large Feral Pigeon population, these and the local Woodpigeons were the commonest species, along with Red Kites and Crows. Twice a Grey Heron flew slowly overhead, and once a Little Egret passed right over my side of the building, black legs and yellow feet, trailing behind it.  It gave me pleasure. I smiled. 

I was allowed to keep my window open, so sometimes could hear bird calls. Dawn is very early in June, but not as early as the nurses and their medication rounds. I heard Blackbirds singing, Wrens calling and Swifts screaming. One morning, at about 4:30am, I heard a singing Chiffchaff in the dawn. I was transported back to happier times, hearing this species announcing that spring was here. These connections with the outside world, and between my past and my present were incredibly therapeutic. When you are trapped in a hospital bed, anything that takes you to another place or time is very precious. 

The staff and surgeons in the hospital were fantastic and I am expected to make a full recovery, though my leg may never quite look the same. To every person who visited me in hospital – thank you, it means more to me than you will ever know.

So, here I sit, in my garden on a hot summer’s evening, with Dave Lowe. My leg is in a brace, I’m forbidden from bending it for two weeks, but can walk with crutches. Above us, some form of aerial insect hatching event is taking place, There are several hundred gulls circling above Headington, flycatching. Swifts join them, as does the occasional opportunistic Red Kite. I scan through the gulls, beautifully lit against a blue sky. As always, most are Lesser Black-backs, with a few Herring and Black-headed Gulls in with them. Then I find myself checking for Mediterranean Gull, dreaming of Yellow-legged Gull. I smile. It’s going to be OK. 

Great White over Headington

For a district that is 67 miles from the nearest sea, it seems strange that Headington is associated with sharks. But Bill Heine’s fabulous fiberglass shark, which protrudes 25 feet above the roof of the house he owned in New High Street, is probably the most famous thing about Headington. It also looks pretty good at night too, here pictured with Comet Neowise in the summer of 2020:

I had my own Great White experience in Headington yesterday morning. It was a routine Saturday morning dawn visit to Warneford Meadow and the Lye Valley. Perhaps early spring, if I really squinted hard enough, but really it was late winter. March 5th is slightly too early for the mass of waterbird migration that should kick off from mid-month and will probably pass overhead elsewhere, but as with all local patch birding, you just never know. So I keep going, just in case. A singing Nuthatch and drumming Great Spotted Woodpecker were positive signs many bird species were entering their breeding cycles. Displaying Greenfinches were obvious too, and Chaffinches had recently started singing.

I watch the skies constantly, as nervous as Vitalstatistix, who lived in fear of them falling on his head. My anxiety was not over the impending collapse of the atmosphere, but of missing a migrating bird flying over. Or worse: of only seeing it when it was already too distant to identify. The vast majority of my scans of the sky reveal either nothing or just Woodpigeons. But if you do something enough, eventually something will happen. Or at least, that is what I tell myself.

At 7:23am, I notice a shape in the sky. High above the Churchill Hospital, flying away and slightly east, it has deeply bowed wings and is quite large. I furrow my brow and raise my binoculars, whilst the words “Grey Heron?” begin to form in my mind. The data from my eyes immediately answer this question in the negative – the bird is pure white, above and below. “F**k, it’s an egret” I mutter, whilst quickly swinging my camera around to capture some pictures. Whilst the motor part of my brain works away on the logistics of getting some pictures of a distant white bird flying away from me against a white sky, the inquisitive part of my brain is still wrestling with the identity of this bird, from what I can see through the viewfinder, whilst I take pictures. “Looks big, very deep wingbeats – got to be a Great White?!” I ask myself, without really taking on the meaning of this.

By now, the bird is distant. My camera is not going to help me much more. I put the camera back on my shoulder and go back to a binocular view. The bird is struggling a bit with the stronger gusts of wind and drops down slightly in front of Shotover Hill, before rising again and continuing its journey east. A local Red Kite provides a nice point of comparison as they pass near each other, both birds appearing a similar size in flight.

Finally, I can hardly see the egret anymore, so I turn and review the pictures on the back of my camera. It IS a Great White Egret! The long, dark legs, trailing behind the body are just visible, as are the deeply bowed wing on downbeats:

You can just about make out the yellow bill here and check out the length of those wings:

Wow, what a start to spring 2022, or what an end to winter 2021-22! Either way, this is an amazing record of Great White Egret over Headington, Oxford, and a great incentive to continue dedicated coverage with spring migration just around the corner. What else might fly over before the sky falls on my head?

Pallas’s Warbler

On one hand, it was expected. But on the other, completely unexpected. Pallas’s Warblers are very rare inland. But, very occasionally, a Pallas’s Warbler will spend the winter in the UK. I can recall a bird in the south-west that stayed and even began singing in early spring. One even wintered as close as Berkshire in 2013, but this was an exceptional record. Realistically, Pallas’s Warblers are rare birds of the east coast in late autumn. They are a great find anywhere being tiny, beautiful birds and all birders love them. There has never been a Pallas’s Warbler in Oxfordshire, and quite feasibly, there may never be one. Until Gareth Blockley found one yesterday afternoon.

At 15:48 the county rang to the sound of expletives as Gareth broke the news of his astonishing find:

We can forgive Gareth for his mis-spelling of the bird’s name. The magnitude of the find and the myth of the Pallas’s Warbler is such, that lesser men than Gareth would have been rendered unconscious at that moment. Gareth found and identified the bird and got the news out, with diagnostic pictures. These are the acts of legend in Oxfordshire birding.

Unfortunately, within 40 minutes of the bird being found, it was dark. Only two other people saw the first Oxfordshire Pallas’s Warbler that day. There then followed a contender for the most tense evening ever in Oxfordshire birding history. Would the bird stay? Would anyone else see it? Would it survive a night several degrees below zero, indeed the coldest night of the entire winter?

Well before sunrise, in bitterly cold conditions, local birders began gathering in the line of trees where the bird was last seen. By sunrise nearly 40 people were present and we pretty much all knew each other.

Bird activity began. It went something like this: Blue Tit. Chiffchaff. Long-tailed Tit. Chiffchaff. Chiffchaff. There were a lot of Chiffchaffs. Blue Tit. Chiffchaff. Chiffchaff. And so it goes. A freezing hour passed. Another freezing hour passed. The procession of Chiffchaffs continued.

Then, finally, a shout from Pete Roby. Running. Looking. More running. And in the back of an alder tree, a yellow and gold gem zips about manically: the Pallas’s Warbler. The bird is very mobile. In binoculars I get a flash of the rump as it powers up into the crown of the tree, followed by views of the head pattern as it pauses, before darting across the track to feed high in alders further along the path.

Photographs are pretty much impossible, though I do try. It is dark, the bird tiny, hyperactive and silhouetted.

Pallas’s Warblers are so breathtakingly beautiful, that every trip to see one is built on dreams of images like this:

Where the reality is so often, much more like this!

But we didn’t care. We had seen an Oxfordshire Pallas’s Warbler and that is very, very special.

The author would like to thank his support group for their help in writing this article without using the phrase “seven-striped-sprite”. Thank you.

Purple Horror at the Palace

It happens to everyone eventually. Birds are mobile and can move quickly between different areas. This means that they can turn up unexpectedly, which is one of the joys of looking out for them. It also means that they can frustrate, when they disappear as magically as they appeared. Sometimes, they just disappear, despite all your efforts. Last night was a horror show.

Most of the evening was extremely pleasant. Confirmation that there was a juvenile Purple Heron at Blenheim Palace arrived in the morning and I managed to negotiate a couple of free hours in the evening in order to try to see what is a rare bird in Oxfordshire. I arrived before 6pm and was pleased to find two friends, Dave Lowe and Wayne Paes, scanning the lake for the Purple Heron. Wayne had already seen the heron and had watched it fly away from the island, north over Queen’s Pool. All three of us were very confident that the heron would return to roost on the island in the lake before darkness fell.

The light was good, and as time passed, more and more herons and egrets began arriving to roost in the trees on the island. At 18:35 a flock of at least 15 Cattle Egrets flew in (from Otmoor perhaps?) joining a handful of Little Egrets on the island, whilst a Great White Egret fed in the shallows to the north of Queen’s Pool. Grey Herons stalked the shallows, making short flights between feeding areas. We discussed the incredible speed with which Cattle Egrets have become a breeding species in the county. Seeing all three egret species at one site is no longer the remarkable experience that it once was. As the climate warms up, the heat-loving herons and egrets of the Mediterranean find that they can now breed in Oxfordshire.

Gradually the light began to fade. Greenfinches and Starlings joined the heron roost. A Kingfisher zipped past, there was a distant Mandarin Duck, Pied and Grey Wagtails called from above, as they made their way to roost. But no Purple Heron.

By 19:30 it was virtually dark. Puzzled, we wondered if we had somehow missed the Purple Heron as it returned to the island. Or perhaps it had chosen to roost elsewhere? The moon rose behind the floodlit Palace, which was looking pretty special. I took the picture below and then we agreed to call it a day. It had been a pleasant evening, even without the Purple Heron making a reappearance. We parted, Dave and Wayne making their way towards the Palace, where they had parked. I began crossing the bridge to take the public footpath out of the grounds.

Then it happened. Less than two minutes after we separated, I heard shouting from behind me: “TOM, TOM, PURPLE HERON, PURPLE HERON!” I cursed, turned and sprinted back across the bridge. There was more shouting “PURPLE HERON, FLYING RIGHT!”. It was dark, I was running towards the sounds. It seemed to take an age for Dave and Wayne to come into view as I ran up the road towards the Palace, though it was probably less than 10 seconds. I was scanning the sky as I ran, but I could see no birds. Anything below the skyline was pitch black. The Purple Heron had just flown right in front of Dave and Wayne, in front of the stunning backdrop of the Palace and the moon, and had disappeared into the darkness of the Great Lake. I had missed it by less than two minutes.

The overwhelming emotion was frustration. Frustration that a couple of hours of effort could have ended with views of a moonlit Purple Heron flying by in front of Blenheim Palace. Frustration that sometimes in birding, the margins are very small. The choice of a view one way, or a path another way, and you miss the bird. But it happens. I know there will be other Purple Herons, the warming climate will see to that. It is not impossible that within my lifetime Purple Herons will be breeding in Oxfordshire, in the same way that Cattle Egrets have burst upon the scene this year. Still, to see one by moonlight, in front of the Palace… ouch.

Tree Pipit on the patch!

Recording the first Tree Pipit for the Lye Valley area in August 2020 was a special moment. Not least as I put in a fair few hours in the autumn of 2019 without success. This year I had failed to see or hear any Tree Pipits in the last week of August, so when a loud “tzeep” call rang out from the sky on 4th September, I was pleased to record Tree Pipit for the second successive year. That Tree Pipit flew south over the golf course, I heard it call three times as it continued its migration across the county:

For most of today’s patch visit, things had not looked particularly productive. There was little evidence of many new migrants in, a juvenile Ring-necked Parakeet practicing flying low over the golf course greens was the slightly surreal highlight.

As I crossed through Churchill Meadow, right behind the hospital, I flushed a bird from the main track. It was immediately interesting. It flew fast, low and silently to the back of the meadow, but I got enough on it to feel confident that the bird was a pipit. There is virtually no overlap in existing records of when Meadow Pipit and Tree Pipits appear over the Lye Valley, but both could be potentially recorded in early September.

I went back into the meadow and walked through it twice without seeing the bird again. As I returned along the track, once again the pipit rose up, this time flying to a small patch of silver birches on the edge of the meadow. Here I could just glimpse it through the foliage:

I could make out the fine steaks on the flanks and then it began pumping its tail up and down: it was a Tree Pipit! Finally, it turned towards me for a moment, before flying back to the far edge of the meadow:

An unexpectedly brilliant view of a Tree Pipit! I suspect that Tree Pipits pass through the Lye Valley in tiny numbers every autumn, it is just a question of whether anyone is out there to see or hear them. The next target: a nice spring record of this species?

A crazy triathlon: bike, run, Osprey

What are the chances of a good bird turning up in pretty much the only two hours that I have completely free in the entire month of August? That is exactly what happened at 09:41 this morning when Isaac West posted a message saying that he had found an Osprey at Farmoor.

This is a species that has always eluded me in Oxfordshire, so I make the snap decision to travel straight to Farmoor. I speak to Isaac, who tells me the Osprey has been circling the reservoir for the last 25 minutes and is still present. Aware that the bird could depart at any moment, I head straight for the door. Then I remember. I have a little free time this morning, but my wife has our car. Not to worry, I know that I can cycle to Farmoor in not much more than 20 minutes from Headington, albeit on a road bike, without optics and a camera. I throw these items into a pannier and head out on my commuter bike. Needless to say, there is a nasty headwind. I plough on, checking my phone in town and at the end of the Botley Road, as Isaac is under instructions to call me if the Osprey leaves the reservoir.

I sprint up the ramp to F2, leap from my bike and simultaneously scan the skies and call Isaac. There is good news: he has the Osprey in his ‘scope. The bad news is that it is currently about a mile west of the reservoir and flying away! Isaac gives me directions to the bird, but I only have binoculars and he doesn’t think the bird is a binocular object anymore. This is not good.

I tell him: “I’m going to cycle out to you on the causeway, keep it in your ‘scope!“, knowing full well that it is forbidden to cycle around the reservoir. Sure enough, in little more than two rotations of my pedals, I am stopped by some reservoir staff and told not to cycle. I dump the bike, pull out my optics and camera. I can see Isaac just over halfway along the causeway, watching the Osprey in his ‘scope. It is still distant, but flying away.

I have no choice. “I’m going to run along the causeway to you, keep it in your ‘scope!” With a DSLR camera and telephoto lens in one hand and my binoculars in the other, I start to sprint along the causeway. Whilst wearing cycling shoes. Chris Froome famously ran a section of Mount Ventoux in the Tour de France in cycling shoes. If he did it, so can I. And to my knowledge, Froome did not add a new species to his French list at the time either, whereas I have a full-fat county tick awaiting me, just along the causeway. Such behaviour did attract a few looks as I set off. Unbeknown to me, Bob Burgess and Steve Burch were observing me from across the reservoir, Bob commenting that there was a jogger with a lens on the causeway. Eventually, I get to Isaac and, to his credit, he is still on the very distant Osprey:

The bird is a dot in the sky! It is nearly in Faringdon. Fortunately for me, after wheeling back and forth for ten minutes or so, the Osprey begins to return to the reservoir:

Finally, I can make out some of the plumage details as the chocolate-and-white raptor heads back to F2:

And the bird performs magnificently, including a flyby over the causeway:

Superb! And massive thanks to Isaac for finding the bird and then keeping tabs on it whilst I completed my crazy triathlon. A county tick for us both, and there is also one painted on the exit sign at the reservoir:

The Lye Valley & Warneford Meadow: Spring 2021

This is a summary of the birds (and some other wildlife) recorded in the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow area between 20th March and 20th May 2021. There was a brief warm spell in late March, just before Easter, which saw the arrival of a few summer migrants. Then temperatures fell away, resulting in weeks of cold weather, including a remarkable mid-April snowfall. Nationally, spring 2021 was very cold and then very wet! April 2021 had the highest number of days with air-frost ever and was the third coldest on record. May 2021 looks like being the wettest on record. Neither of these factors are beneficial to migrant or breeding birds.

In this 61 day period, there were a combined total of 89 visits recorded on eBird to the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow area. 59 species were recorded in March; 61 in April and 53 in May. By 20th May, 73 species in total had been recorded this year. 40 or more species were recorded on four days: 20th March; 9th April; 17th April and 1st May.

Sub-zero mornings became a routine, with dawn visits beginning by crunching through heavy frost, well into May:

Female Green Woodpecker in the frost.

In the freezing temperatures, some bird species would sit facing the rising sun to gather what warmth they could:

Male Sparrowhawk

Later in the spring, the local pair of Sparrowhawks would begin displaying:

Early spring sees waterbirds on the move and occasionally such birds would pass over the Lye Valley:

Greylag Geese
Barnacle Geese

However, most waterbird migration is nocturnal. Isaac West and I spent a few nights in late March listening and recording nocturnal migrants. See this post for details of a spectacular night, on 23rd March, when we heard migrating Common Scoter, Coot and Wigeon, as well as recording the first Barn Owl for the area.

Back in daylight hours, despite the temperatures, nesting behaviour could still be seen:

Red Kite with nesting material.
Singing male Grey Wagtail.
Singing Chiffchaff.

The rarity highlight of the spring occurred on 10th April when a Ring Ouzel flew over myself and Phil Barnett in Warneford Meadow. A few hours later a male Ring Ouzel was located in Marston Meadows in Oxford, perhaps the same bird? Ben Sheldon has been regularly visiting Aston’s Eyot, by the River Thames just off the Iffley Road, some one mile to the west of the Lye Valley area. Eight days after the Ring Ouzel flyover, I received the sort of text message that sends the inland local patch birder into cardiac arrest:

We can forgive Ben his typo. I know what seeing Bar-tailed Godwit migrating over your patch does to your adrenaline levels. It is incredible that Bar-tailed Godwit have been recorded flying over Oxford city in two successive years. I ran up to the nearest point with a view of the sky and scanned desperately, but to no avail. Ben followed this with reports of Marsh Harrier and singing Redshank overhead, neither of which materialised over the Lye Valley either!

The cold weather took a dramtic turn on 12th April with a heavy fall of snow, documented here:

Fortunately, despite several centimeters of snow, it had melted by lunchtime. The surreal sight and sound of a Willow Warbler singing in the snow was remarkable:

Once the snow was gone, spring behaviour returned. I have noticed Jays flocking together in large groups in April in a number of years now:

There were also drumming woodpeckers and displaying Treecreepers, whilst Siskins and Lesser Redpolls remained into late-April this year, much later than usual:

Treecreeper

This spring was a good month for falcons, with three records of Peregrine and two records of Hobby, as well as the local breeding pair of Kestrels.

Peregrine
Hobby

By mid-April first young birds were appearing. These Tawny Owlets were exceptionally early and would huddled together for warmth on cold mornings:

Very young Moorhens, on the tiny Churchilll Hospital balancing pond

The local Pheasants provided regular entertainment, displaying from mounds on Southfield Golf Course, before literally pulling chunks of feathers from each other

When seen, Muntjack Deer usually freeze, then run. This male, choose a different approach, by attempting to hide in low vegetation, just off the main path in the Lye Valley. I walked past and noticed the glowing white horns. I took a few pictures, then moved away:

In many ways, this was a spring of hunkering down in first cold, and then very wet, conditions. The second Sedge Warbler for the area was found singing on 27th April. A Kingfisher was seen twice on Boundary Brook, on 1st and 6th May, the latter sighting by myself and Dave Lowe, as he carried out his biannual Breeding Bird Survey for the BTO. This Kingfisher was the 99th species of bird recorded in the Lye Valley area on eBird. The full illustrated list of birds seen in Lye Valley and Warnford Meadow can be found here. What, and when, will be species number 100?

An April Snowstorm

On Monday 12th April I awoke to astonishing scenes. Not only had there been a significant overnight snowfall, but intensely heavy snow was still falling. I staggered out to Warneford Meadow to begin my daily pre-dawn search for migrant birds, but could hardly see across the meadow for the snow:

The view across the trees of the Lye Valley, towards the Wood Farm towerblock, from the golfcourse. This is April!

I was in a state of shock. The conditions were more like the Cairngorms (though with less crampons, see here). Needless to say, bird activity was severely reduced by the heavy snow. Indeed, the only bird of note was a fly-over Grey Heron, nicely illuminated from below by light reflected from the fallen snow:

I wondered what effect such heavy snow would have on the blossom of the many trees, just in bloom?

And how would the insectivore bird species possibly find anything to eat in such alien conditions? My questions were answered as I approach a pair of silver birch trees at the south end of the golf course. Incredibly, both trees were alive with phylloscopus warblers, feeding in the snow-covered branches:

I came to a conservative total of at least 8 Chiffchaffs, but the trees were filled with constant movements. Some of the Chiffchaffs had snow frozen to their feet as they moved through the trees:

But best of all were 2 Willow Warblers, both singing frequently. To stand in heavy snow, at times a near white-out, and listen to the liquid, descending notes of summer left me almost unable to reconcile what I could see, with what I could hear, my senses conflicted.

A Willow Warbler, feeding and singing, in heavy snow.

By 7:30am the snow had stopped falling. With the temperature just above freezing, the melt began. I was lucky to glimpse one of the local Tawny Owls, left absolutely bedraggled by the snowstorm:

Other birds appeared completely untouched by the snow. This Eurasian Jay perched for a moment on a branch above the stream, absolutely pristine in pink, blue and black. The colours were back.

By late morning, after taking my daughters’ sledging, the sun was out and most of the snow was gone, as though it was never there at all. The bushes were filled with singing Blackcaps and Chiffchaffs and there were insects in the tree blossoms. The early morning white-out was a monochrome memory.

Sky-listening: scooters and scoters in Oxford

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.

Tree Pipit: calls, evidence and birds.

Two recent local patch visits have produced a species that I spent much of last August listening and looking for, but without success: Tree Pipit. This species is a scarce migrant in Oxfordshire, but one that has history in this area. I spoke to Steve Heath early last year. Steve grew up in Cowley and used to watch the Southfield Golf Course area many decades ago. Steve told me that Tree Pipits used to be regular up on the golf course and even now I could see why. The open grassy spaces on top of the hill, the many mature pine trees combined with the sandy bunkers on the golf course, look as if they could tempt a passing migrant Tree Pipit down to investigate.

There was a significant movement of Tree Pipits across England in late August 2019, but despite many hours of observation by myself and Dave Lowe we did not record a Tree Pipit in the Lye Valley area. Last week I was in south Devon and saw, heard and photographed a number of Tree Pipits as they migrated down the coast. Their calls were fresh in my memory as I headed out on Tuesday morning.

Devon Tree Pipits

First encounter: no confirmatory second call

As I descended from the golf course towards the trees of the Lye Valley on 25th August, I was stopped in my tracks by a buzzing “tzeep” flight call of a bird passing high overhead. I immediately called out “Tree Pipit!” I scanned the skies, cupped my ears and listened out another flight call. It never came.

I have long since stopped identifying birds on the basis of “what else could it have been?” If I find myself going down that particular avenue, it simply means that I have not gathered enough evidence to confirm the identification of the bird in question. There must be evidence from my own observation to substantiate the identification. Identification based on ruling everything else out that is not present, is by definition, much less secure.

I reflected that had I been on the Devon coast I would have simply added Tree Pipit to my eBird list and carried on. But in an Oxfordshire context, Tree Pipit was a new species for the Lye Valley area and a species that I had neither seen nor heard in the county. I needed more evidence. I needed the confirmatory second flight call. The one you hear when you are fully alert and listening. Not the first flight call, that can catch an observer unawares, where the mind can play tricks or the wind can distort the call of a more common species. For me, I needed to hear more than one call to reach a satisfactory evidence threshold to add a new species to my patch or county list. I gritted my teeth and headed into the woods.

Second encounter: the confirmatory call!

About eight minutes later, as I passed between the Churchill Hospital and the 18th green of the golf course (this is a strange local patch), I was stopped in my tracks by an explosive buzzing flight call from a bird high overhead. Again I stopped and scanned the skies and listened and this time the flight call was repeated as the bird moved south, sounding just like this recording:

[Albert Lastukhin, XC495491. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/495491]

It was a Tree Pipit! And I had heard the second confirmatory call. The one that for me, reduces the risk of an overactive imagination or wind distortion and nails the ID. Tree Pipit was on my patch and county lists. I went home a happy man.

Third encounter: “chip” calls

This morning I was back on the golf course at first light. I was unnaturally optimistic about finding a Redstart for some reason, but as usual drew a blank. As I searched the southern end of the golf course I once again heard the distinctive sound of a Tree Pipit’s standard flight call. This time it was relatively low and I managed to photograph the bird as it circled around overhead.

I watched and listened to it fly over the hilly southern edge of the course before losing sight of the bird. Then I became aware of some high pitched “chip” calls coming from a pipit-like bird flying back north over the golf course. These calls were unfamiliar to me. About 15 minutes later the bird making the “chip” calls flew back overhead, before inserting a classic Tree Pipit flight call between the chips notes. The “chip” calls were Tree Pipit alarm calls, just like this recording:

[B Whyte, XC566189. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/566189.]

The Tree Pipit continued flying east and I watched it leave East Oxford and fly until it was lost from view. An instructive morning and a small ambition fulfilled. It is good to know that this hilltop golf course in Oxford city can still attract migrating Tree Pipits in autumn.

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