A real Scottish rarity...

In my last post I promised news of a real Scottish rarity, so here goes: sunshine. It was present for a whole day, and provided perfect conditions for a long day in the field with the camera.

Slavonian Grebe, Loch Ruthven

It started early with an excursion before breakfast which boosted the trip list with a Black Grouse in a roadside birch up Glen Spean, a pair of Goosander and four Grasshopper Warblers reeling along a half-mile stretch of the River Spean.

Slavonian Grebe, Loch Ruthven

After a hearty breakfast back at the Glenloy Lodge, scene of the previous night's encounter with a Pine Marten, I headed up the south side of Loch Ness towards Loch Ruthven. The RSPB reserve there is an excellent place to see breeding Slavonian Grebe from a hide without the risk of disturbance.

Sunshine over Glen Spean

It takes a bit of effort to get there, especially at the moment with the road north east from there to Inverness the subject of a closure, but pretty much every route to it takes you through some excellent habitat, so it's not exactly a hardship.  

Loch Ruthven

As I entered the reserve a tour party were listening to a Grasshopper Warbler and as I passed I jammed in on a Golden Eagle overhead, called by their guide - the birding equivalent of goal-hanging. Fortunately they had already been to the hide or it would have been a bit of a squeeze and I'd now be posting sniffy jibes about dudes who couldn't tell a Slav from a Yugo. Instead there was just a couple who had recently left Speyside, and who told me that Crested Tits were coming to the feeders at Loch Garten - good news as this was where I planned to end the day.

Common Sandpiper on a lochan just north of Loch Ruthven

I had arranged a B&B at Boat of Garten, so headed from Loch Ruthven towards Inverness and down the A9, but took at detour around the grouse moors of Lochindorb before making my way down to Speyside. The Loch itself held a Black-throated Diver and Common Sandpipers picking around the shore.

This Toad was behind the hide at Loch Ruthven

With Black and Red Grouse in the bag, the following day - the last full day of my Scottish trip - I would attempt to see the other two British Grouse species: Ptarmigan and Capercaillie. My next post will tell you how I got on.

Now where was I...

Oh yes, before I was so rudely interrupted by some actual news of a Dusky Thrush in Kent, I was in the middle of stringing out old news from a Scottish trip. This was so long ago it's almost a history book. So to recap: I crossed the border at Carlisle, evaded the Pictish hordes, then made my way to North Uist when it was still joined to the mainland by a landbridge, where I saw most of my targets: Corncrake, Twite, Woolly Mammoth etc. Hitching a lift with some Norsemen on a longboat to Oban, I avoided the construction traffic building McCaig's Tower just in time to head off for a B&B a few miles from Fort William.

Pine Marten at Glenloy Lodge

After my bizarre encounter with a Corncrake in the garden of a croft in the Outer Hebrides the previous day, hopes were high of another patio tick: the Glenloy Lodge has a reputation for regular sightings of Pine Marten. I had assumed this would be an after dark job, and had planned to carry on birding until the sun went down before arriving. On the advice of the owner, however, I got there for 1800.

I had to wait for the Pine Marten to retreat to the bottom of the steps to get the full creature in shot, even with a 28-80mm lens

Dumping my bags in my room, I set up in the conservatory with a variety of camera bodies and lenses. If the Pine Marten came to the steps in front of me, the 400mm was clearly going to be too big, so I thought a 28-80mm would probably be the best bet. After a tense half hour wait, there was a clatter of feet on the roof, then a face peered over the gutter into the conservatory. The proprietor appeared with some titbits to place on the wall. No sooner had he turned his back than she (I'm reliably informed it was a she) was back on the steps to take the bait.

'You want cheap car inshoorance?'

I was the width of a window away from the Pine Marten but followed the advice to keep the doors shut as the smell of a stranger, rather than the sight, could have caused it to bolt. Photographing through glass is always tricky, but there could be no complaints with views like this. It was my only 'tick' of the trip, and a memorable one as I had never seen a Pine Marten despite many visits north of the border.

Pine Marten taking afternoon tea, my hire car in the background 

Just a few more days of the Scotland report to get through now, so come back soon for my next post, and details of a real Scottish rarity...

Hate camping, love the New Forest

My dislike of camping has been documented on this blog before, the consolation being that it often takes place in good birding locations. This weekend it was the New Forest, for the occasion of my nephew's 18th birthday. His own dad, who loathes camping even more than me, got away with not going, yet somehow for me this was a three line whip event. Delighted though I was for young Harry to be reaching a landmark age, it still couldn't erase the indignity of having to pee in a bucket.

Woodlark

We arrived at Sandy Balls campsite - I'm not making it up, that's what it's called - on Friday evening, where my son amused me greatly by misreading the sign for their Hair and Beauty parlour as 'Hairy Balls Sand and Beauty'. Just as I was preparing for another night pretending to sleep, the pager flashed with news of a Dusky Thrush in Margate cemetery. It had been present since Wednesday, but news had only just been released. The phone pinged soon after with the offer of a lift if news was positive the following morning.

Woodlark - this one recently fledged

I tested the water about the possibility of a pass out but, not unreasonably, it was a flat 'no'. It was a sleepless night, on this occasion was not just down to the usual reasons of a deflated airbed and ball-aching cold. An early report that the bird was still present at 0600 brought on a seriously sinking feeling.

Redstart - usually reliable at Acres Down but not today: this one was at Morden Bog in Dorset a few days ago

Margate is a bit too far from Fordingbridge to get away with 'I'm just nipping out to get a paper', so I tested the waters again about permission to go. This would have been unwise at the best of times, let alone 0600. Again the answer was no. With no new birds for my British list so far in 2013, several plans to add to it foiled, and a recent mega-dip under my belt (another Thrush), this was hard to take.

Cuckoo at Acres Down

I took a leaf out of my offsprings' books when they are told the answer is 'no': if I've learnt anything from them it's the susceptibility of their mother to pester power. So when fellow Dorset birder Steve Smith texted me just after 0600 to confirm his offer of a lift I nagged and nagged until, most unexpectedly, the answer became 'yes'. Cheers kids! Claire has a birthday coming up, so I can thank her in the way I know she would want: with the purchase of hideously expensive kitchen gadgets. Which she would point are substantially cheaper than Canon cameras and Swarovski optics, and make better cakes. 

Dusky Thrush: a bit shy while we were there, but who's complaining?

And so it was that by 10:00 we and about 200 other birders had a Dusky Thrush, and a couple of bemused mourners, completely surrounded. It didn't move from it's semi-obscured perch for the next half-hour, after which, having ticked, it was time to run. Steve was kind enough to settle for the partial but still close views and get me back to Hampshire before papers could be served.


Dusky Thrush, Margate Cemetery

I spent most of the rest of the day playing football, giving piggybacks, swimming, cooking, washing up and generally doing whatever it took to rebuild my battered stock with both immediate and extended family. Fortunately the friends who had come down from Kent for the camping weekend could see the funny side of me pretty much going back past the house they had just left behind.


The friendly face of author-photographer-mandarin James Lowen, pictured here twitching AND snacking at the same time. A man of many talents.

Number 431 for my British list was a long time coming, and not even the campsite staples of snoring relatives, noisy neighbours and bassy beatboxes could stop me sleeping like a contended baby last night.


The last words are reserved for my rescuer from the hell of camping, and driver for the day: Mr Steve Smith. And the words are 'Thank you Steve'!

Tweet

My first Twite was pointed out to me by the late great Chris Mead. He was one of the guides on a holiday I went on around the northern isles just as I was getting into birding. 'Twiiiite!' he bellowed as one flew overhead, giving its onomatopoeic call.

Twite, Balranald

I have another memory of Chris on that trip sitting on the deck of the Professor Multanovky, wedged into a plastic cafeteria chair, sliding several yards from left to right with the swell, bins pinned to his face, occasionally howling 'Minke!' when a whale of that species surfaced in The Minch. No Minkes on my crossing of the same stretch of water last week, but a few Common Dolphin and some Harbour Porpoise were at least seen.

Twite - the other one of a pair at Balranald

Twite was one of my main targets to photograph on the Outer Hebrides. Strong winds and frequent showers made them harder to catch up with than I had hoped, and in two days the best views I had were of a pair perched briefly on the fence next to the visitor centre at Balranald.

But as I waited in the queue for the early morning ferry from Lochboisedale to Oban, in weather for which the word dreich was invented, a wheezy call gave away the presence of another pair feeding on dandelion seeds in the gutter.

Twite, Lochboisdale

Ditching the car in the ferry queue, there was just enough time to get a few shots through the drizzle. Given the low light and the high ISO rating needed I was quite pleased with how the camera coped, especially capturing the hint of pink on the rump of a bird perched on the kerb.

Gannet at sea

The ferry stopped off at Castlebay en route to Oban - Barra would have been an island tick for me had we disembarked - where another pair of Twite flew overhead. I didn't catch up with a White-tailed Eagle on North Uist, but was pretty confident I'd see one as we sailed down the Sound of Mull to Oban. Unfortunately, the weather was so poor I couldn't see Mull, let alone any eagles on it, so that put paid to that. Another dozen Great Northern Divers, half a dozen Bonxies at sea and a few more Manxies were a modest reward for the best part of seven hours on deck, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

Kittiwake, Sound of Mull

I had just over an hour to kill in Oban before heading off for a special evening near Fort William (more on that later) but unfortunately the Black Guillemots which I had relied on to be close in to the harbour edge were all a bit too distant for photography. Thankfully another Oban staple, Hooded Crows on the beach, were a bit more obliging.

Hooded Crow, Oban

Thick and fast

In the last post I shared my angst at lagging behind with blog updates relative to the passage of time since returning from Scotland. It's a tricky balance after such an excursion: do you blurt it all out while it's still hot, or drip-feed in the hope of stringing out the content through more fallow periods which may lie ahead? I'll not be allowed out for weeks after this so should probably go for the latter. But you'll have to forgive me if the posts keep coming thick and fast for now.

Snipe at Balranald - from the car window

'Thick and fast' is a description which could equally apply to the main subject of this post, the Corncrake, which is given to running from danger despite the God-given gift of wings. The first week of May should have been good timing for seeing them on North Uist: late enough for them to be back from East Africa, but too early for their favoured habitat, the iris beds, to have fully grown up. And so it seemed as I cruised to Balranald on my first day on North Uist, pausing only to nearly crash the car in a ditch as a male Hen Harrier tonked past the windscreen: within 15 minutes I had heard a Corncrake from the car window, in an iris bed on the edge of a village.

Dunlin on Benbecula from the car window

This gave a false impression of how easy it might be to hear them, however, as on arrival at Balranald, apart from a couple of birds which had paid a brief visit the previous day, the sightings board revealed no calling birds on the reserve at all. Like so many other things this year, the cold weather had appeared to delay their spring migration.

Golden Plover on Benbecula - also taken from the car window

The next morning I returned to the area where I had heard the initial bird. The iris bed was next to a large garden, and I chose what seemed a considerate location on the road overlooking the area to avoid invading the privacy of both the Corncrake and the residents.

Lapwing on Benbecula - another car window photo

The Corncrake didn't see me and continued to call at regular intervals, but I failed in the other respect as the lady owner of the cottage saw me standing in the rain and the strong southwesterly wind, and, out of pity presumably, invited me to go into the iris bed via a gate at the bottom of her garden. I politely declined the offer to yomp through prime Corncrake habitat, explaining the sensitivity of the bird and so on, but I did accept the chance to stand in the lee of her shed which provided some shelter from the rain, and a discreet view of the iris bed over a chest high wall. 


Sanderling on Benbecula - had to get out of the car for these

Corncrake calls, I discovered, can be a bit ventriloquial in a strong wind, and it took a few more bouts of calling for me to realise that the bird was actually at the bottom of the garden, not in the iris bed! The bird continued to call from an unseen songpost but I eventually glimpsed it walking under a tamarisk at the end of the garden. Happy with my views, not wishing to outstay my welcome and now keen to get out of the atrocious weather, I was about to beat a retreat when the Corncrake walked out onto the patio behind the house, took a dump and sauntered around the corner to next door's garden. Not quite the au natural view I had imagined I might get, but I suppose defecating Corncrake must be something of a photographic rarity at least.

Corncrake doing its business on the patio

My tight itinerary involved spending the night on South Uist, so after a bit more quality time with the Balranald waders (see previous post), I headed down the west coast of Benbecula where another Corncrake was heard, Golden Plover mingled with Lapwing and Ringed Plover in the fields, a female Merlin hunted pipits, a Great Northern Diver fished offshore and more waders graced the beaches.

Moulting Great Northern Diver, Benbecula

The weather had picked up on Benbecula but deteriorated again by the time I got to South Uist. A Short-eared Owl at the end of the long causeway over Loch Ba was a good bird with which to end the day.

Short-eared Owl, South Uist

I had a room for six to myself at the excellent Howmore hostel, and was spared any embarrassment at being a 40-something in a youth hostel when it became apparent I was the youngest person there. Most of the rest were cyclists, heading north and grateful that they had chosen that direction in view of the prevailing winds which continued throughout most of my stay.

Another view of the Corncrake in a North Uist garden - heavily cropped to get the washing line out of shot!

Purple, but not on the patch

Feeling guilty about driving to Scotland last week so thought I would do my bit for the environment by recycling this blog post title from last year. Then it was a Heron, this time Sandpipers, which adorned the beaches of Balranald, North Uist, on my second visit last week.

Purple Sandpiper - in summer plumage there is more rufous in the scapulars and the crown, and more prominent white fringes to the feathers on the back, than we would normally see on winter birds in Dorset  

It's all happening up there now I'm back of course, with a massive Skua passage kicking in and a Snowy Owl re-appearing after a long absence. At least I prefer that explanation to the alternative, which is that it was there all along but I am such a duff birder that I failed to spot a haystack of white feathers on a needle-shaped carpet of machair in the Sollas area. I did have a look there as it happens, and even got the scope out a couple of times to positively identify the resident white plastic bags.

Purple Sandpiper. The leg colour is also darker on this bird than the orangey pins, to use the official topgraphical term, which help identify winter birds.

But I've learnt that it's important not to dwell on 'if only's' after such a trip. That way madness lies. Short of moving to a birding hotspot (which I've already done), never leaving (which is impractical), being unemployed (unsustainable) and not having a family (unthinkable!) one is always going to miss something where one just was. It's just a matter of narrowing the horizon over which one allows oneself to get upset about it.

Purple Sandpiper

Enough pseudo-philosophical claptrap though, I'm still only on day two of writing up a six-day trip which is already a week old, and there is no stench worse than over-ripe blog material decomposing under the weight of its own putridity. Except perhaps that seaweed I had to lie down in to photograph those Purps. At least I got my own table at the pub that night.

Eugh. Lying down in it was bad enough. 

Balranald waders

Photographing waders on the machair and the beaches of Balranald was one of my main reasons for making the long haul to North Uist last week. The sun came out on my first afternoon on the island and I went back for more the following day.

Dunlin

A pair of Twite and a Corn Bunting called from the fenceposts around the visitor centre at the RSPB reserve, as well as a very wheezy sounding House Sparrow - a Hebridean accent perhaps? The walk to the beach was accompanied by mewing Common Gulls and 'proper' Rock Doves.

Dunlin

On arrival, Dunlin was the most common species in a mixed flock of waders at the southern tip of the well known seawatching headland, Aird An Runair. These were mostly in their very smart summer plumage and frequently giving display calls - a high pitched descending trill. My kids have toy bombs which make a similar noise, but somehow this was much less annoying.

Dunlin

A few Purple Sandpipers were in the wader flock but remained distant on the rocks, untempted by the seaweed. But the Dunlin were coming to a small pool so I sat quietly next to that and with patience was able to get superb views down to a few metres.

Dunlin

Ringed Plover, Whimbrel and Sandering, including a few in summer plumage, were also present but, like the Purps, were not as confiding as the Dunlin, on which I was happy to concentrate.

Lapwing

The footpath around Aird An Runair passes into the comfort zone of breeding Lapwing, Redshank and Oystercatcher and the commotion made by all three was quite intimidating. Redshank was usually the first to kick-off, but the Oystercatcher probably the most persistent and excitable, and Lapwing the most elegantly threatening of the three.

Lapwing

A half-hearted seawatch produced Great and Arctic Skua harrying the Arctic Terns which breed here, but which were only present in small numbers. I didn't see any of the hoped for Poms and Long-taileds which, a week later, are now passing this point in their hundreds.

Oystercatcher

But distant views of Skuas couldn't compete with close-up waders which were almost underfoot and directly overhead, so it wasn't long before telescope was replaced by telephoto lens on the tripod again.

Sanderling in its less familiar (to a southerner at least) summer plumage

It was easy to get carried away and I left it pretty late to get to my accommodation and scramble an evening meal. But what a place: food seemed an unwelcome distraction.

Whimbrel