At first, it seems as though we are the only living things here aside from the plants and heather flies. The heather flies are mid-sized black flies with long, dangling legs – close relatives of the St Marks flies that adorn the hawthorn hedges in Springtime.

A few sheep raise their heads as we crunch past on the stony path, momentarily giving their location away before dropping out of sight to browse or sleep.

But far ahead, and even further upwards, there are birds. Rapid, aerodynamic birds - Swallows and Martins. And once you get your eye in, the sky is dotted with birds of prey, too. We count four Kestrels that seem more intent on chasing each other than hunting.

A larger bird crests the hill beside us, easily the biggest Red Kite we’ve ever seen.

A weird, chattering call unlike any I’ve ever heard starts up under her flight path. No time to get the Merlin app on it, because the source of the sound – a rather plump, dark coloured bird – has just leapt into the air to fly clumsily away from danger, with a few friends in tow.

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They’re not Pheasant or Partridge, I know those calls. Could this be the lifer my dad and I had discussed ‘probably not’ seeing just a few moments before we started the walk?

As the birds sail away I can’t get my camera on them, and they disappear over the hill. But as we stand, staring at where they had just been, a dark shape breaks up the silhouetted heather that frames the horizon. A little face is staring right back at us.

My first proper Red Grouse. Do you remember when you first saw one (if you have) – other than in an advert for whisky, of course?

It turns out to be the first of many. Dad points out some just a few metres away, and their incredibly effective camouflage evades my cameras autofocus. There are two birds in the photo below and despite the easiness of the shot, neither are fully in focus. Their plumage is some of the most intricate and beautiful I’ve ever seen.

If you’re looking for ground-nesting birds, what you really need is a good harrier. And I am (naively) surprised to see one. A juvenile Marsh Harrier appeared, rushing over the heather; a species that – until today – I had only ever seen hunting over reedbeds.

The Red Grouse are obligingly harried - 35 more take off and make their way across the hillside.

After a long, hot summer down South, we have forgotten that rainclouds are not just a novelty - they’re also full of rain. And we’re surrounded. We turn back, and realise we’ve covered much more ground than we thought. Each time we had turned a corner: “Just one more, I want to get a look at that rocky outcrop/gulley/bush” - and then the next, and the next…

On the return journey, there’s one more treat. The butterflies! My first Small Copper, and my second Clouded Yellow.

Finally, we reach the carpark. It’s almost impossible to get into the car, turn on the sat nav and drive away – until, that is, the first drops of rain I’ve seen in weeks start to fall.

Thanks for joining me. What have you seen while I’ve been lost among the pink heather?

Gem

It’s very hot, and we’re on the exposed hillside, hunting for wildflowers and butterflies at the fabulously named Sharpenhoe Clappers.

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The pale, chalky hills reflect the sun’s heat back up, baking us twice. But look around!

The meadow is alive with insects and there are all kinds of wildflowers dotted about, swaying breezily whenever we are blessed with a cooling gust.

It’s hard to say which insect species is most numerous, but the Meadow Brown is a strong contender. This one is showing off some of the underwing features that help you tell it apart from the Gatekeeper.

The two evenly spaced smaller black dots on the lower wing, for starters. These aren’t always present. The Gatekeeper always has a series of dots, and theirs feature a white centre. And then the larger black spot in the orange section contains a white dot in this species, but two white dots in Gatekeepers.

This is sitting on a beautiful scabious, a wonderful flower that loves chalk grasslands and is fantastic for pollinators.

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Now we get to the part where I may have to add in corrections later! I understand this to be a Vestal Cuckoo Bee. They look very much like Buff-tailed Bumblebees, because (like their avian namesakes) cuckoo bees are parasitises, and need to look similar to their buff-tailed hosts.

This one had yellowy patches at the top of its white tail and has no pollen baskets, which leads me to think it’s the cuckoo variety. This species sneaks into a host nest, kills the queen and tricks the workers into raising their offspring instead. Crafty!

A little cuter, the next pollinator we see is the Common Carder Bee. You can see the stripes on its back that look like carded wool, lending it its name. And it’s on some lovely purple Vetch, which has some of the prettiest foliage going.

We’re learning as we go here – this is an Early Bumblebee. I thought it was a Red-Tailed, but the yellow collar rules that out. I love the pattern on Knapweed flowerheads just before they bloom.

Unlike the slow and noisy bees, the butterflies are making us work for a chance at a photo! It’s important not to trample wildflowers, but waiting for the butterflies to haphazardly pass close to the path can be infuriating.

This Marbled White was quite some way away and didn’t sit still for long. A photo offers the opportunity to marvel at the intricate pattern of lines, dots and patches on their wings.

This Dark Green Fritillary was even more infuriating, taking the entire walk to finally get a shot at it.

A slightly random aside, here. I once went to Barbados and desperately hoped to see a hummingbird. Sadly, the only one I spotted was expired on the ground. Feet firmly in the UK, the nearest thing I get is this Hummingbird Hawk-moth. Let’s be honest, it’s almost as good!

Right that’s enough of the good guys – the pollinators – for now. Look at THIS! (And while you look, please consider the absolute horrors I experienced while trying to get the camera to focus on it.)

This weirdo has an arched back thanks to its fat little tail tucked between its legs. It seems like a funny shape, until it introduces itself as a Ferruginous Bee-grabber (a type of Thick-headed Fly, as if the name wasn’t already insulting enough). Here’s what the Wildlife Trust says about them:

“They hang out around flowers, waiting for the right bee or wasp to appear. When they spot their target, they pounce and grab it – either on a flower or in mid-air. They lay an egg inside the target’s abdomen, then let it go. When the egg hatches, it feeds on the insides of the host, eventually killing it and pupating in the dead husk.”

Its fat little tail is a perfectly poised egg-deployment weapon. Moving swiftly on…

This is a Large Skipper, and if it’s not then it’s a Small Skipper. Skippers don’t carry their two sets of wings flat like other butterflies. This one has a dark line on its wing, so it’s a male. This and the following photos are all species we saw at Sharpenhoe, but were taken at another nearby location in the evening.

This gorgeous little Common Field Grasshopper is so well camouflaged that I’m not surprised it didn’t think it needed to do a better job of hiding.

The underside of this Common Blue is a stunning selection of dots and spots.

The top looks very Brown Argus-like, but I believe you’d see larger orange spots that continue right to the top of the wing in that species.

And finally, a rather low-brow end to the day with this pair of bonking beetles, living up to their nickname. Of course, you’d probably call them Common Red Soldier Beetles in polite company, but you’re not in polite company!

Thank you for joining me. I will get back to birds next time round, but the wonderful world of invertebrates deserves a spotlight every now and then. As ever, I’d love to know what you’ve spotted out and about recently?

Gem

As we arrive at the entrance, the scent of lavender fills the air – and so does the buzz of wings. Bumblebees, Honey Bees, flies and more. A Hummingbird Hawk-Moth has been seen recently, although we aren’t so lucky (but here’s one I photographed earlier).

This incredible, bird-like moth has flown all the way here from southern Europe, or perhaps even North Africa. It’s a substantial moth, but that still seems quite a feat to me.

Just the other side of the entrance and the dipping pond is also in full bloom. Tall Purple Loosestrife waves in the breeze, and bundles of gorgeous baby pink Hemp Agrimony are covered in butterflies.

As we cross the bridge that leads to the part of the reserve with the bird hides, this Wren looks like it might be unwell. Flattened, even!

At one point, it has its beak open – a sure sign that a bird is feeling the heat. But before long it stood up to greet another Wren, then lay back down and fluffing itself up again. The theory is that if the Wren is hot, the parasites on its feathers are even hotter, and will either die or abandon their host.

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The first hide, the Draper Hide, overlooks a wetland scrape bordered by reeds at the back. It’s a great place to see ducks, grebes, gulls, herons and egrets in particular. It often has waders, geese, and a passing kingfisher or bird of prey too.

Today, a Cormorant is the first thing to catch the eye. How such a cumbersome bird ended up needing to perch and dry its wings between fishing sessions, I don’t know. Watching them clamber up (and often fall off of) perches is endless fun.

The elegant Little Egret has no such worries, as it looks effortlessly graceful even on a much more precarious perch. I love seeing them fully out of the water – they look like they’ve got funny yellow shoes on.

We spend a little time watching the five Green Sandpipers foraging in the shallow water, and playing ‘spot the Common Tern’ among the throng of Black-Headed Gulls. Then on to the next hide – but first, the little pool under the wooden footbridge that leads to the lower section of the reserve. There’s always something hiding there!

Today, it’s Little Grebe chicks (dabchick chicks?). And as much of a surprise to them as to us, the parent bird surfaces like a bath toy just beside them!

And just as we are about to wander onwards, a kid points out a juvenile Reed Warbler directly under our feet on the bridge.

This one was also ‘panting’ with its beak open, half-heartedly pecking at morsels around it. But it was only half-hearted because a much easier source of food was just around the corner: its mum! She quickly ushered it into a cooler, less exposed location to feed.

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The next hide we reach is the Kingfisher Hide (spoiler alert: there were no Kingfishers). The only activity on the water was a family of coots. There were three ugly babies, all legs and cheeps.

One doting mum (probably – I don’t know if you can sex Coots).

And an aggro dad, who chased this poor Mallard out of the water from the far side of the pool.

At the next hide, a similar story with a different victim, if you can ever call a Black-Headed Gull a ‘victim’. This is the view from the Tern Hide, and it should really be renamed Gull Hide as it’s home to multiple floating tern rafts full of gull chicks.

We’re nearing the end of the circular loop now, back at the duckweed-covered pond where we saw the Reed Warbler earlier. This time, another bird in the same spot catches our eye. It’s a rusty reddish brown and slightly more round – a Cetti’s Warbler. Far less obliging, too – not a single photo.

But then my dad spots something. A tiny, adorable little bundle of feathers. Our juvenile has a sibling, and I guess they aren’t too hot for a cuddle now!

What better way to end the walk? And the ginger ice cream in the visitor centre is the cherry on top!

And what a shame that locals will have one less opportunity to see all these wonders for themselves when the RSPB withdraws. It’s not a landscape-changing reserve, but it has a strong community and little else to rival it in terms of diversity nearby. And if people can’t access and experience nature, they can’t love it and they won’t save it.

Thank you for joining me again. I hope you enjoyed our walk, and I’d love to know what else you’ve seen recently?

Gem

We arrive at 6am on a Thursday. The visitor centre Puffin stands nearly 6 feet tall and looms out of the mist. The dense, grey mist…

Not a great start. But there’s a cheerful chirping coming from the bushes, waiting to greet us. Tree Sparrows!

I find these gorgeous little birds fascinating. They look just like male House Sparrows, except they have a black spot on their cheek. This spot sometimes joins with the cap, looking more like mutton chops! They are, I think, a richer, redder brown than House Sparrows.

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But what I find particularly interesting is that while House Sparrows are sexually dimorphic (meaning the female looks different to the male), both sexes look the same in Tree Sparrows.

Assuming the two species look so similar because they are closely related, why does the female Tree Sparrow look so much like the males (of both species)? Or was it that the common ancestor of both looked like the male, and only female Housies changed? Why?

Anyway woe is us, because I don’t know the answer. Perhaps someone will tell us in the comments.

Any visit to Bempton Cliffs requires you to stop and squeal as the Barn Swallows twist and turn directly over your head before perching or darting over the shutters at the visitor centre to reach their nest. We oblige.

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I do not attempt to photograph such fast-moving birds in the mist. But I do stop for this adorable and inquisitive juvenile Common Whitethroat in the bushes on the path down the the cliffs.

I recently learned that Common Whitethroats are not closely related to Lesser Whitethroats, which will come as no great surprise to you if you have ever dabbled in bird taxonomy and naming.

As we get closer to the sea, sounds guide us. There are guttural groans and deep aaaaarrrrrrrrrs, mewling cat sounds, cries and screams. At the top of the cliffs, Gannets occasionally rise up to our eye level - they’re hunting for grass to line their nests with.

And by ‘nest’ I mean ‘beakful of grass on a cliff edge’. (Don’t worry, that chick is alive and well - it was just having a nap!)

These birds are complete contradictions - they are huge, waddling, booby-esque creatures that frequently land on each other’s heads and fall over. But they have a graceful curve to their necks and look utterly serene in flight.

They bicker mercilessly with their neighbours, often clacking their weapon-like beaks. But in the next breathe they turn to nuzzle their partners, turning their heads in time and crossing bills.

Also drifting into sight over the wildflowers that line the edge are Kittiwakes, Fulmars, Herring Gulls, Rock Doves. Jackdaws, Carrion Crows. So many birds soaring, calling, trying to land on the sheer rock face or leaping off of it.

We stand for a moment, taking it all in. Then a step closer to the fence that stops us plunging to our deaths, and another moment is required.

The land gives way to enormous white cliffs, glowing in the morning sun. The smell of seabird guano - distinctly fishy, yes - rises up to greet us. The noise increases, too, swelling to double the volume now. Waves crash far below.

And the birds. So. Many. Birds.

Every rock face is dotted with hundreds of birds. Half a million in total. And many of them are trying desperately to keep their precious charges - eggs or chicks - from falling off the edge.

Puffins do this by nesting in burrows or cracks in the rock face. This one was desperate to deliver some sandeels to its offspring, but the comparatively enormous Gannet was blocking the way.

Eventually, a Jackdaw tried to mug the Puffin, so it flew off. I did see it dive into the nest hole from the left-hand side a few minutes later - success!

Among all the noise and activity, a calm moment locking eyes with this quiet, sincere looking little bird is breathtaking.

But we can’t block out all that noise forever. After a few hours of sensory overload, a quick nap back at the accommodation is in order. Then we return for the rest of the birds that demand a mention.

This is the gorgeous Razorbill, which looks jet black compared with the Guillemots. They are often caught with their eyes closed as if in contemplation.

At around 20 days old, Razorbill chicks leap into the sea below using their not yet fully formed wings to slow themselves down - they do not have flight feathers at this age, so it’s quite the feat. The male adult follows and will stay with the juvenile until it is capable of feeding itself.

(In my opinion) Guillemots are the most likely to be yelling and covered in poop. They are sleek and slight, until you seem them fly (then they look like a potato with rather too-small wings). Their beaks look a bit slender for holding fish in, but they have sharp tongues and sharp bits on the roof of their mouth, so they get by.

They dote on their chicks, often preening and cuddling with them, presumably to hold them in place. The bird on the right-hand side of the photo above is a ‘bridled’ Guillemot, an unusual colour variation with white eyeliner.

And that is about as much excitement as I can take for one day. Time for a snooze!

Friday morning, 5am, and we wander down the nature trail in the reddish light of the just risen sun. The glint of a white bird quartering the fields catches my eye.

That’s a happy half-hour whiled away watching the Barn Owl hunt, with about as many successful dives as not. Later, as we walk along the cliff path, a silhouette catches our attention.

A juvenile Peregrine Falcon, understandably not welcome enough to sit out in the open. It is huddled on a quieter cliffside, hoping to go unnoticed.

Not unlike this female Kestrel, just a short distance away. Though she is more interested in the voles found among the wildflowers, they are also subjected to mobbing by other birds if caught hanging around.

Shortly after, the sun comes out with more force than my pale complexion can handle, even with factor 50 suncream. I pause briefly to photograph this enormous Brown Hare, then beat a hasty retreat.

I head to a nearby woods recommended by another nature Substacker - no photos, but I did catch a lifer there: the Common Crossbill.

And later that evening I met that Substacker - - in person. And now I think ALL the NatureStack writers (as I have decided to call us) should organise to meet. Can anyone work out what the most central nature reserve in the UK is?!

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Thank you for joining me. What did you see while I was ambling along the cliffs?

Gem

No – today, we’re setting off at 6am to pull into the carpark on a suspiciously sunny morning. I say suspicious, because it’s that kind of bright sun that bounces off the low, dark clouds. Rain clouds.

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But ahead of us stretches a sea of golden reeds, their fuzzy seedheads waving in the breeze. Every few metres, there’s a male Reed Bunting perched, either singing his quiet ‘chip, chip, pew’ song or gorging himself on seeds.

As the reeds sway they expose patches of water below, with its dazzling highlights. Larger areas of waters are dotted with ducks and waterfowl. The finest looking of these is the Great Crested Grebe – there are cosy couples and individual birds, but no baby ‘humbugs’ being transported on their parents’ backs yet.

There’s lots of action overhead, too. Marsh Harriers are harrying, and small flocks of Swifts are wheeling around catching flies. The occasional Barn Swallow joins them, looking very dainty next to their much larger cousins.

But this one – it’s bigger than a Swift, but still has those scimitar wings. It also has a smart pinstripe chest and russet trousers on. A Hobby! I love the way they go from incredibly sleek to slightly gangly as they transfer the dragonflies they catch from claw to mouth, all while flying at pace.

The fens are flat and wet, so looking out over them isn’t as awe-inspiring as steep, rocky mountains or rolling, forested hills. But as we scan the water and the skies, welcoming more of our summer residents back, it’s every bit as exciting. And here’s another – a lazily flapping Common Tern.

It is working the channel of water that runs alongside the carpark, back and forth, back and forth, pausing then twirling downwards to splash into the water for small fish.

I had my hopes up as I drove to the reserve. I wanted to hear Bitterns and Bearded Reedlings. Both rare and elusive, so I will be happy even without a sighting. And it doesn’t take long to make my day – the Bitterns are booming (albeit rather half-heartedly) right from the start of our visit, making the sound of air blown over the open top of a glass bottle. One even takes flight, though some distance away.

Now, if you’re not from the UK you might be wondering why I’ve shared a potato shot of a dull brown ‘heron’. If you are from the UK, you’ll understand – because when I was young, there were only 16 breeding pairs of Bitterns left in the whole country. So when you see one, you photograph it and you share it!

But what’s that moving in the reeds? Maybe a Chinese Water Deer? Or a pesky Greylag? Or is it every birder’s dream: a Bittern that isn’t flying away from you.

Seemingly entranced by the early morning sunshine (the first we’ve had in a while), it stays put for five minutes. Photos aren’t good, but they are good enough for you to make out the blue blush on the area between the beak and the eyes. It’s a boy!

Of course, we watch until it disappeared into the dense reeds, then watch some more in case it returns. Until, that is, a familiar ‘ping, ping, ping’ call starts echoing around the reeds just in front of our bench.

And there she is – a Bearded Reedling! I have to say, the females aren’t particularly handsome. Their dark facial plumage gives the impression of sunken eyes, and then the light colour of the eye itself is a bit… starey. Their heads don’t match their gorgeous orange bodies.

But wow, what a treat. We can’t all get that dream shot of a male doing the splits.

Or so I thought. This male pops up right in front of us, showing off his signature move. But then, it seems the lack of hides at this reserve means the birds are more accustomed to human activity. The Marsh Harriers were also much closer than expected.

And it has to be mentioned that this is a new reserve. Until very recently, these reedbeds were a working quarry. “Once complete,” the RSPB says, “the whole wetland will stretch 700 hectares and include the largest reedbed in the UK, spanning 460 hectares.”

The walk back to the exit shows a surprising density of warblers, including this Sedge Warbler, and it’s almost tempting to do another loop. But those clouds have darkened and the sun has fled so maybe next time!

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And finally, what RSPB reserve would be complete without its very own carpark corvid to check if you’re stopping for a shared meal before you head home?

Thank you for joining me. It’s been so good to get out somewhere new. What have you seen while I’ve been pottering in the fens?

Gem

Buy me a coffee (if you want to!)

It’s 6am on a weekday morning. Pulling into the carpark, the mist is starting to lift already. Only one other car is present, but it’s far from quiet – the birds are singing.

Or rather, alarm calling.

A pale ghost of a bird lifts off from a post near the entrance before melting into the woods. A Barn Owl.

It doesn’t pause for a photo – but this female Muntjac obliges.

Once the threat of the owl has gone, the songbirds begin their melodies in earnest.

The Song Thrushes seem to have some attitude in them today – this one watches us from an unusually short distance away.

This Robin also seemed surprisingly tame as it hurriedly gathers a beakfull of insects for its hungry offspring.

He doesn’t go far, flitting to a low branch nearby where an extremely grumpy looking juvenile is waiting. My first fledgling of the year!

The two juveniles seem to be hanging around the path and are well accustomed to passers by. One of the parents perches near my head, opening his beak ever so slightly and quietly serenading me with a sweet song. I offer him suet pellets, which he’s not quite brave enough to take from my hand.

I drop a couple, but don’t empty the rest of the pellets on the ground as I know the babies need much higher protein snacks, like the caterpillar in the picture above.

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But these are not the residents we’re looking for, and we’ll have to be very quiet if we hope to catch a glimpse of them. I flinch every time my foot crunches on the gravelled path that winds alongside the chalk stream.

Plop!

Just missed one, then. That was the unmistakable sound of a Water Vole dropping into the icy cool water. No chance of seeing it, as they swim below the surface like furry torpedoes when spooked.

But just around the corner – what’s that perfectly round ball of fluff? (Please, don’t be a rat.)

The raft of vegetation it’s sitting on is a dead giveaway though – not a rat. Now, if only it’ll turn around…

That face gives it away. Chubby cheeks, a snub nose and the hint of long, yellow incisors. Ears that are just barely visible. The Water Voles have young, so the females are out early to stock up on vegetables. Later, the babies will venture out to join them.

If we’re lucky, we’ll see a behaviour I often read about and always wanted to see: a Water Vole climbing a tree. They look to have impossibly short limbs for such an activity, but the promise of fresh leaves inspires amazing feats.

And there she is – a mum on a branch leaning over the river.

These adorable little acrobats used to be commonplace. Over the last century, they’ve suffered the most dramatic decline of any mammal in the UK – but Fowlmere seems to have a thriving population.

Their diet includes over 200 species of plant, and according to the Wildfowl and Wetland Trust “Pregnant water voles often try to find more protein rich sources of food, like flowers and snails, and have recently been reported eating frogs’ legs.”

As we follow the winding track further along the stream, birds become the main focus again. This Treecreeper is very interested in what we’re up to.

Notice how its eyes are situated underneath its beak? The beak turns down at the end and this arrangement allows it to see what the tip of its beak is up to as it forages under tree bark.

The trees alongside the path give way to reedbeds. The stream diverts to the left, and we continue on straight. As we walk under an arch created by leafy shrubs, a loud chirping call starts up directly overhead: the recently arrived Common Whitethroat.

The Reed Warbler keeps up an absolute cacophony from deep in the reed beds, safely obscured from view by the vertical stems. A dreamy half an hour sat on a bench overlooking the gently swaying reeds finally delivers a chance of a photo.

Somewhere behind him is a Sedge Warbler, singing its equally chaotic but slightly clickier, mechanical song. It briefly flutters up into the air calling, then drops out of sight again – no time for a picture.

The usually reclusive Cetti’s Warbler though – well, he’s found the perfect perch to scream his “Hey! Come-and-look-at-me, come-and-look-at-me!” call from, and he isn’t going to leave it for anything.

This is the best season for a visit to the reserve. I haven’t even mentioned the Swallows, arriving from Africa and delighting in splashing into the cool water on the mere as if for fun. Or the pair of Marsh Harriers, who are likely awaiting the arrival of their hatchling any day now.

This Common Lizard, basking in the Spring sunshine, is the last critter of this visit – but we’ll be back very soon. I can’t seem to keep away from this very special place at the moment. I hope you’ll join me again next time.

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In the meantime, I’d love to know what you’ve seen near you in the last few weeks? Any fledglings?

Gem

The weather is so dramatically changeable that you’ll look a fool whatever attire you choose. I went for ‘sweaty fool’ in a big coat as the sun dashes in and out of dark clouds. My hat is on, off, on, off and my thumb flies over the exposure wheel on my camera as I try to keep track of the lighting.

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For one charming little diving duck, the Tufted Duck, it doesn’t matter how you set your exposure. They are half brilliant, dazzling white and half deep, dark black with a green and purple sheen. Some of their beauty is always lost in the transition from the wild to the screen.

The Red Kites, however, look radiant in the sun. This is, I believe, the male. Smaller than the female, he is gathering nesting materials for their enormous, messy nest that is probably constructed from a combination of these sticks and plastic rubbish.

This framing of this female Gadwall catches my eye; so pretty and dainty opposite the Mute Swan that comes over to ‘see me off’ from the water’s edge.

I capture my first Chiffchaff photo of the year; this little one is saying ‘dweep, dweep’ to itself as it works the trees for insects. When it breaks into song, it gets its chiffs and chaffs all muddled up – no wonder they seem to spend most of the year incessantly practising the notes.

Out in the field, these Crows look suspicious. They’re watching as another Crow dismantles something a few metres away… or so I thought.

But there is a reason they are keeping a healthy distance, which soon becomes clear when the ‘Crow’ raises its head. That enormous heavy bill is a dead giveaway – the Crow is in fact a Raven.

Not long ago, a Raven would have been a very rare sight in my area. Now, they are making up for lost time and appearing in any open, wild landscape they can find. I love hearing their hoarse ‘kronk-onk-onk’ overhead.

Another ominous sound has returned to the skies - bees! I have encountered a few trees in pollen that are positively buzzing, audible from a few metres away. My face has had more than one close encounter with a haphazard bumblebee this week.

Having processed these photos and found myself wanting more, let’s head to Fowlmere. It’s a misty morning so my hopes aren’t high, but we can always pretend we only wanted a nice walk anyway – birds are a bonus.

One of the stars is not a bird, however, but a big Brown Hare.

If male, he will be feeding up in preparation for boxing season. They are powerful creatures, capable of running at almost 45mph (>70km/h). Also thinking about courtship, the Muntjac pair look pretty cosy. The male has his tongue out, attempting to detect the pheromones that will tell him the female is in heat.

If, like me, you’ve ever wondered where their name comes from, it’s a latinised form of the Dutch muntjak, which is borrowed from Sundanese mencek, and unsurprisingly just means ‘little deer’.

I hate to end on a rubbish photo, so before I get to the end let me share this most unlikely of geese. Two circuits of the reserve in, it’s time to go home without a hint of the supposed Russian White-Fronted Goose in with the Greylag.

As I drove up the track towards to exit, one last gaggle of Greylags is resting in the field. I pause to check them for imposters and just before I pull away, defeated, this one wakes up to poke its telltale beak out for a moment. Not just a visiting rarity for the area, but a lifer for me.

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Lastly, another cosy couple: pair of Little Grebes. If you aren’t already familiar with their call, I recommend googling it and playing it loud, in a public place, without explaining yourself. (Let me know how that goes.)

Thank you for joining me on these walks. Fingers crossed for a little bit more sunshine next time around! I’d love to hear what you’ve spotted over the past few weeks – has the change of seasons brought you anything new and exciting?

Gem

Show you care, with a coffee

The soundscape for this week’s walk still features the weak ‘seep seep’ of wintering Redwings, and the ‘pew pew’ of Siskins. But they are almost drowned out by springtime songs – most notably from our resident thrushes, Song, Mistle and Blackbird. Their warbles, trills and melodies immerse you in all the shenanigans that spring courtships bring as soon as you step outside.

And the first warbler song of the year came from this extremely loud Blackcap.

Robins and Great Tits also join the cacophony, and the lilting chatter of Goldfinches can be heard in the quieter moments. But not all the birds are ‘singing’ – there’s the loud drumming of Great Spotted Woodpeckers on dead trees, the repetitive shriek of a female Kestrel chasing Crows from its chosen nest site, even the occasional daytime ‘hooooo’ from a Tawny Owl deep in the woods.

There’s a feast for the eyes, too: tiny, tightly balled pink buds adorn the fruit trees, some with the first feathery hint of petals starting to peek out. Brimstone and Peacock Butterflies have started to appear, drifting along the flayed hedgerows that have not yet burst into leaf and blossom.

It even smells different outside now. Air that smelled of damp greys and browns has the vibrant odour of wet greens.

I am grateful for this abundance of distractions from words like cancer and prognosis. But they can’t distract me from the absence of my dad at my side, especially when I visit Fowlmere – one of our favourite local birding spots.

As I walk, I make a mental note of all the things to tell Dad about – like this very round Goldcrest that allowed me to take its photo.

And around a year ago, when I made my first foray onto Substack, it was one of Fowlmere’s most popular residents that I featured: the Marsh Harrier. This year, the pair have returned, although I saw no sign of the male myself.

As recently as the 1970s, there was only one breeding pair of this magnificent bird left in the UK. Now, there are over 700 pairs and while most migrate to Africa in the autumn, some now spend winter here too.

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Our female has been absent, but she has returned a month earlier than predicted – I wonder if she only migrated to the south of the country, or Europe, rather than further afield.

She seemed to be checking out various nest sites, dropping into the reads with her long, yellow legs extended below her.

As she swoops low before such a landing, the nearby waterfowl set off a chain of alarm calls, giving an indication of why the name harrier (from the verb ‘to harry’) was chosen.

The Greylags, however, didn’t feel particularly harried by her as she sat in the reeds.

She didn’t appear to have hunting on her mind today, though she did fly past this male Sparrowhawk in an apparent display of displeasure. He roundly ignored her.

The ducks have the most immaculate plumage at this time of year, as do the brightly coloured finches. Even this Moorhen looked particularly dashing, with its blue-black chest and red-black wings.

There has been work done to remove reeds at the reserve, opening out the space in front of the Drewer hide; my dad and I call it 'the boring hide’ when we forget its name. It’s not, really, as it’s the best spot to see the Kingfisher, and I once watched four Little Grebes foraging just a couple of metres in front of the hide.

But the Greylags used to nest in the reeds under a small tree here, and the reeds have now been removed, exposing the nest site. It’s not clear if they’re going to nest there anyway, but they seemed to be checking out nearby alternatives.

In wooded areas, it’s a great time to look out for a very special little fungus, the Scarlet elf Cup. At first sight, they look like someone has dropped some tiny plastic litter. They’re very small – around 1cm across – and often grow on decaying sticks, hidden away just under the leaf litter.

And of course, it’s Primrose season. These jaunty little flowers love to cling to mossy drystone walls in the parts of the country lucky enough to have them.

I’m hoping that my dad will be out of hospital and we’ll be back at the boring hide before long. I hear the Little Grebes are around, and their trilling, wailing cry is quite something.

I’d love to hear about your springtime sightings – let me know what you’ve seen! Just yesterday, I heard my first Chiffchaff of the year, have you?

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My favourite sign that things are changing is the development of colour on the Black-Headed Gulls’ heads. In a few individuals below, you can see it starting to com through.

The countryside is alive with noise – this is a fantastic time to go out and get to know some of our common species and the calls they make.

The soundtrack still features winter finches and thrushes: the ‘pew-pew!’ of Siskins, the chatter of Redpolls and the weird ‘chuck-chuck’ of Fieldfares.

But there’s a cacophony of spring sounds, too, as our year-round resident birds plan ahead to breeding season: ‘teee-cha, teee-cha’ from Great Tits and melodic songs from Robins that seem to be dotted around every few metres or so.

Song Thrushs’ loud, varied tunes are delivered from a high position, usually in a large tree, and interspersed with impressions of other birds. I heard one confidently mimic a Green Woodpecker, a Buzzard and a car alarm in rapid succession.

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Pairs of Blue Tits are busily checking out potential nest sites, and the Stock Doves are doing their low, rumbling roar once more.

While squirrels can breed year-round here, they must have it on their mind at the moment as six of them (five grey, one black) seem to be endlessly chasing each other along the garden fence and through the tall trees behind our garden.

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Almost as fast as those trees grow new buds, a small group of Chaffinches strip them from the branches and eat them. The sticky sap seems to annoy them, so they regularly wipe their beaks on a branch like a chef sharpening their knife on a steel.

The local woods are a gathering point for Redwings and Fieldfares as they prepare to migrate back to Scandinavia, Eastern Europe and Russia. They don’t usually leave until March-ish, but seem to be gathering earlier than usual this year – I’m holding out hope that they know we’re in for a pleasant summer!

Despite their recent decline, there are still a few Blackbirds to be found. They seem to become shyer in the winter, perhaps taking the lead of their skittish visiting cousins.

I’m hoping to photograph some ducks before I next write, because they are coming into their breeding plumage and there’s nothing quite as spectacular. Even black feathers feature flashes of iridescent green and purple when they catch the light.

Thanks for joining me again. What have you seen this week? I’d love to hear about it.

Gem

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I’d heard the flock of Greylags at one of my usual patches was harbouring some rare visiting geese. Russian White-Fronted Geese and Tundra Bean Geese, both of which would be lifers for me.

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I arrived just as the Coots finished their morning meeting and scattered across the ice. The frozen water had forced the Greylags much closer to shore than usual – perfect.

Unfortunately, they were doing what geese do best: sleeping. And both of the rare geese look very similar to Greylags (of which there were about 400) when their heads aren’t showing. So I scanned the flock for any birds that looked smaller, darker or otherwise ‘different’ and then moved on.

Out on the frozen water, an assortment of gulls stood looking displeased. Lots of Black-Headed Gulls, with their little black ‘spots’ of feathers behind the eyes – all that remains of summer’s black head plumage. And the odd Lesser Black-Backed Gull, always standing alone.

And then this one flew past - it’s between the size of the two other gulls, and has a mid-tone grey back, too. The legs and bill are grey-yellow. And it’s got a decidedly ‘cute’ look, for a gull!

It’s my absolute favourite: the Common Gull. A total misnomer, too, as it’s not common at all this far inland. Unlike the many, many Cormorants that flew back and forth between the two fishing lakes.

The rest of the walk was uneventful, but I do like to keep the Merlin app running and glance at it to see if it’s heard any species I haven’t. This time, a bird’s name appeared without the little ‘tick’ next to it that shows I have recorded it on my life list. A Firecrest!

I hung around, peering into bushes and looking for a small, round bird foraging among the ivy, but no luck. They often stick around, though, so I’ll be back soon.

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I also went to Fowlmere with my Dad for a frosty walk, but the low-hung sun dazzled us most of the way round. We did manage to find a Treecreeper, and stood enthralled as it inspected every nook and cranny on each branch.

If you look very closely at the photo below, you can see a small white grub, presumably clinging on for dear life, in the Treecreeper’s beak.

We finally tore ourselves away to sit insistently in a hide – we were up early and it was freezing, surely we would be rewarded? The hide faced directly into the glare of the morning sun, but it seemed to sear our eyes much faster than it warmed our fingers.

Dad finally noticed some movement – this pair of elegant Fallow Deer – but the sound of our shutters sent them scarpering into an almost invisible tunnel in the reeds.

And with that, we gave up and headed home. I love this time of year, starting a new ‘year list’ of birds. All of a sudden, even Wood Pigeons are exciting again! Hopefully I’ll be back next time with a Firecrest and some fancy geese to share, but if not I’ve no doubt our more obliging species will do the job.

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In the meantime, let me know what you’ve seen, heard, photographed or painted! I love hear what wildlife’s up to wherever you are in the world.

Gem

P.S. Thanks for joining me again this year. Substack was the highlight of a very challenging year last year and I appreciate every comment, like, subscription and tip more than I can put into words. Here’s to 2026!

This is due to the hordes of visitors to Fowlmere, many of them power-walking around while loudly discussing their loved ones’ personal business. They are, of course, entitled to do this. Just as I am entitled to wait until they have passed and do a little scowl to myself.

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Thankfully, the plants are as obliging as ever. I spot this Mistletoe from hundreds of metres away and it stays put as I approached.

I wonder if there’s a Flowerology post about it and of course, there is! It goes far beyond my rudimentary knowledge that the word mistletoe comes from the Old English for ‘sh*t stick’.

The hedgerows are adorned with Hawthorn berries, rather nicely set off by the ‘Old Man’s Beard’ that catches the light. Beard, also known as Traveller’s Joy, is a climbing member of the buttercup family.

And although less attractive, the black berries of Ivy are some of the most calorie-dense food available to birds in winter, so it’s good to see them thriving among their more vibrant counterparts.

Blackcaps are here in some number. Ours head south for winter, but we get an influx of Scandinavian birds in their place. Like many other warblers, they switch from insects to berries throughout winter, so they’ve come to the right place.

The ‘skewered sausage’ flowers of Great Reedmace are looking especially glorious today, too. I admire them for a while, when I notice a flurry of activity near the ground.

The Blue Tits that used to dangle from berry bushes over pathways have retreated into the reeds, where the swaying stems keep them hidden from view.

In the trees next to the reserve, hundreds of Redwings and Fieldfares are chattering noisily to each other.

Despite being too loud to miss, they are several layers of foliage deep and incredibly hard to photograph. This is my only Fieldfare of the year.

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Every now and then, the chattering suddenly gives way to an eerie silence. I wonder what has spooked them – then spot this Sparrowhawk looking accusingly at me from the far side of the woods.

In a bid for some more of that lovely quiet, I head to the ‘boring’ hide. The Mallards are there as usual, preening and dabbling and squabbling among themselves. The odd parent comes in with a kid and says ‘Look, ducks!’ and then leaves.

I rarely see much in this hide. Around 20 years ago I saw a Turtle Dove here (my only Turtle Dove), and there have been Water Voles on the odd occasion. Neither are likely today, but it’s so tranquil so I stay a while.

And today, of course, is the day that one of our loudest yet most illusive warblers decides to show up. Unannounced by it’s usual explosive call, it hops into view maybe 4m away. A lovely little Cetti’s Warbler.

An almost perfect circle! This is almost as surprising as the out-of-season Reed Warbler I spotted last week. It shouldn’t be, as Cetti’s Warblers do spend winter here. But they’re so damn hard to spot!

While Cetti’s are only seen if they allow themselves to be seen, Grey Herons stand at over 1m tall and have a 2m wingspan. This one was, I’m sure, trying to sneak away unseen. ‘Trying’.

At this point, the sound of engines running told me that the carpark was full and someone who would enjoy themselves even surrounded by other people would probably appreciate my parking space. I was happy to oblige!

A quick snap of this little one – a Wren – and that’s it for me at Fowlmere in 2025.

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While we’re here…

Thank you for reading! I turned to Substack as a creative outlet after I was made redundant in March and it’s just been the loveliest experience. I’m enjoying sharing my imperfect photography and artwork and I’m constantly inspired by everything I see here. Thank you for every read, like, comment and restack. Have a wonderful turn of the year… see you in 2026!

Gem

Dark days call for a splash of colour, and the Yellowhammer delivers. These finches never cease to stun me as they emerge from the margins of arable fields, showing off the white feathers at the side of their tails.

The RSPB tells me this is a sight to be savoured: “Populations plummeted by 61% between 1967 and 2020 due to a lack of food and nesting habitat, earning themselves a place on the Red List”.

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Yellowhammers have one of my favourite calls. Often described as singing “A little bit of bread and no cheese”, I always think they sound more like a jug being emptied and then refilled from a tap: an ascending “Glug, glug, glug” followed by a descending “wheeeee”.

My next encounter came as I was hiding in a small woodland, looking for our winter thrushes – Redwings and Fieldfares – which I have yet to photograph to any acceptable standard. A small bird with scythe-shaped wings suddenly rushed onto the scene, high overhead, being mobbed by other birds.

My first instinct was that it was one of our smaller waders, but why would anything mob one of those?

The realisation that this might be a lifer slowly dawned on me.

I pointed my camera straight up and tried to track the bird, losing focus on it twice. The bird’s rapid dash across the narrow opening in the trees would not allow me a third mistake.

Thankfully, luck smiled on me and I captured a few shots: it’s a Merlin. A female Merlin with a very full crop, to be precise.

This is our smallest falcon, which only visits Bedfordshire during winter months. You can read the fuss a previous Merlin at this location caused in this Country Diaries post in the Guardian.

I had to confirm my photos were indeed a Merlin (thank you kindly, ) before I got too excited, because there are two female Kestrels in the area, and as you’ll see below the similarities are striking. It can be hard to trust your instincts when the bird in question is a lifer.

Note the differences between the birds in these photos aren’t the best way to tell them apart – the Merlin, above, does have a dark banded tail, it’s just not visible here. And the Kestrel, below, often has a dark ‘tear drop’ marking, like the Merlin; it’s just very faint on this individual.

Aside from the size, I ruled out a Kestrel because of the long, narrow wings and the short, almost squared tail.

The Merlin appears to have timed her arrival well. A flock of around 50 little streaky finches adorned the Alder trees like Christmas baubles. Redpolls – another winter visitor – have gathered in larger numbers than usual.

Every now and then, a gust of wind would take them fluttering into the air as one, like a sudden drift of leaves, and they would settle at the water’s edge for a quick drink.

These extremely charming little birds are very messy eaters, often ruining a perfectly nice photo by having their beaks and faces covered with seed residue.

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The Datura I wrote about in a previous note has gone to seed, so this fascinating plant looks like it’s here for the foreseeable. I haven’t seen any wildlife eating it, which may be just as well given some of its properties.

And there is still one more lifer to mention – this time, it’s a fungus. I felt sure it would be named Stagshorn due to its shape, but apparently this is Candlesnuff.

And it’s doing what Candlesnuff does best – devouring dead wood. Some of the compounds in this fungus have shown anti-cancer properties in the lab, but it is not edible (in case you were considering it).

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And I can’t help but add this photo of a female Kestrel, perched and regarding me with suspicion. This is not the same Kestrel as the one in the photo earlier – you can see this one’s prominent teardrop marking.

Things are going to change around here…

My new(ish) job involves a lot of writing. I have also just received my ADHD diagnosis. So, I’m taking the pressure off – I’d love this to be a weekly newsletter, but that isn’t sustainable for me 100% of the time.

I won’t dwell on it any more, as I’ve already banged on a bit about missed weeks quite a lot. The words come when they come. I hope you’ll stick around and enjoy them.

Thanks, as always, for joining me on this walk. I’d love to know what you’ve seen out and about this month – have you had any winter visitors to your patch?

Gem

Perching on a low branch, it stops to sing a sweet, high song. He regards the birdwatcher, head cocked to one side. Who is this small bird, who seems to have no fear of humans?

The bright orange breast tells us everything we need to know… it’s a Robin!

ID features

The ‘Robin redbreast’ is one of the first birds many people learn to identify. Its orange throat and breast stands out against their pale tummy and plain brown back, wings and tail. They were named ‘redbreast’ before the colour orange had its own name.

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Male and female Robins look alike, and they keep the same plumage throughout the year. Every Robin’s red patch is uniquely shaped, so you can learn to tell your regulars apart.

They stand tall on longer legs than sparrows or finches, moving with a jaunty hop or run. And they are often the boldest of the garden birds, befriending people and perching atop garden furniture as if to ask “Where’s the grub, then?”.

Juvenile Robins fledge at two weeks old. They have no red on their breast, just a speckled golden-brown where the red will be. They are quite fluffy compared with the sleek adults, and their yellow gape at the corner of their mouths gives them an adorable grumpy look.

Their song is truly beautiful, with a warbling, whistling quality. It’s quite complex and varies through the year. Listen to it here.

They start singing before other bird species each day, and finish later – sometimes singing through the night where there is artificial lighting. They are not shy and will usually pose in the open while singing.

Feeding behaviour

Robins can often be seen darting from a low-hanging branch to the floor to grab a morsel before disappearing back onto their branch.

Alongside worms, Robins enjoy spiders and other insects. In Autumn and Winter, they branch out, adding seeds to their diet. Suet blocks or pellets in bird feeders are a particular favourite, and bags of mealworms often feature Robins on the packaging for good reason.

A true British icon

Robins are often found near human activity that disturbs the ground – including allotments, graveyards and near livestock like pigs. They are much easier to befriend than other species of garden bird, partly due to this proximity.

There is a theory that this is also because English people would historically never harm Robins thanks to their link with Christianity (keep reading for more on this). Other European nations held no such association, and killed them with as reckless abandon as any other species.

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While not quite as gruesome as the Great Tit, there is a darker side to this otherwise charming garden friend. Up to 10% of all adult Robin deaths in a year can be attributed to… other Robins. They are very territorial, and it’s not unusual to see two male Robins engaged in a brutal skirmish.

Something special

The Robin is said to have gained its red breast in a variety of ways. Here are a few of the theories as to how they came by their distinctive splash of orange:

• By plucking a thorn from Jesus’ head as he was on the cross, or singing to comfort him, and being splashed with his blood.

• From fanning the fire that kept baby Jesus warm in the stable.

• By getting scorched as it fetched water for souls in purgatory.

These remarkable little birds have certainly captured the imagination of British people for centuries. Scientists have spent a long time studying Robins, as they are able to sense the Earth’s magnetic field via their eyes. This is thanks to a neat system that involves quantum entanglement (and other highly technical-sounding mechanisms).

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Where to spot a Robin

Like many of the birds in this series, Robins are found across the British Isles – everywhere except the very highest of highlands. They are common park and garden birds, but you can find them anywhere with enough insects to go around.

Easily confused with…

The distinctive red breast and plain brown wings, as well as its unique shape, mean the Robin is not easily mistaken for any of our common British birds. These are the two closest.

Stonechats have a similar golden hue to juvenile Robins, but they have streaky plumage where the Robin’s back and wings are a uniform brown. Stonechats also often have a pale or white collar, but this isn’t always clear. Check out the comparison images:

Male Bullfinches have a cherry-blossom pink breast, but are easy to tell apart due to their black head, grey back, black-and-white wings and enormously chunky beak compared with the Robin’s very thin one.

Bonus Robin facts

• The Robin is regularly voted the UK’s favourite bird.

• Postmen, wearing red, used to be referred to as ‘Robins’. It’s thought that the sight of these human ‘Robins’ delivering Christmas cards is why the bird is so closely associated with the festive season.

• The words in the Latin name, Erithacus rubecula, are from the Ancient Greek for ‘unknown bird’ and the Latin word for ‘red’, respectively.

• Robins were initially called Ruddocks, then Redbreasts, but in the 15th Century people enjoyed bestowing names upon birds and so ‘Robin Redbreast’ came about.

• Robins are often said to bring messengers from loved ones in heaven (perhaps due to their hanging about in cemeteries). There’s a saying, “Loved ones are near when Robins appear”.

• Old nicknames for Robins include Ruddock, Bobby, Robinet.

• In Winter, male and female Robins have their own territories and sing a slightly less jovial song than their Spring/Summer tune.

• There are collective nouns for a group of Robins despite how territorial they are: a blush, bobbin, babble or breast of Robins.

• The American Robin is a thrush, and is not remotely related to our Eurasian Robin, which is an Old World flycatcher.

Have you seen a Robin this week? Did you know the rumours about how they got their red breasts?

All photography is my own unless otherwise credited.

It’s easy to hear… but not so easy to find where it’s coming from.

A change to the song – to a ‘pew-pew-pew’ – indicates you’re getting closer to the source. The alarm call is coming from a nearby log. A small – no, tiny – round bird hops furiously from twig to twig, ‘shooting’ you with bursts of laser fire (pew-pew-pew-pew-pew!). It is, of course, our most common bird: the Wren.

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Note: This little bird is so hard to photograph, I have sourced some images from the wonderful community here on Substack. I highly recommend following everyone who has contributed! And if you’d like to see a lot more Wrens, check out ’s collection on Flickr.

ID features

The Wren is yet another ‘small brown job’, and this one is smaller than the others. But what it lacks in stature, it makes up for in style… and volume. It has a characteristically stubby tail that is often cocked straight up in the air. The roundness of the body and this little stub give it quite a distinct look.

There is subtle yet beautiful barring on its chestnutty wings and tail, and a pale eye stripe is often visible. The chest and tummy is a slightly paler brown, and the legs range from grey to orange to pink.

Wikipedia does a fantastic job of describing their calls and song:

The most common call is a sharp, repeated “tic-tic-tic”, similar but faster and with less isolated notes compared to that of a robin. When the bird is annoyed or excited, its call runs into an emphatic churr, not unlike clockwork running down. The song is a gushing burst of sweet music, clear, shrill and emphatic.

Feeding behaviour

Wrens mostly forage alone, though sometimes appear with a partner or near small flocks of tits and finches. They move quickly, prying into every little nook and cranny. They feed mostly on small insects, especially larvae, grubs and caterpillars. They do eat some seeds, but these make up a much smaller portion of their diet.

Skulking, singing and sunbathing

It’s a busy little bird, hopping around the undergrowth and along the ground, often on walls and around garden furniture. It sometimes perches up high to belt out its remarkable song. If you’re lucky, one might inspect the corners of your windows for spiders!

They also love to sunbathe, when the opportunity arises. You might see them splayed out on top of your shed roof or on artificial grass, for example – looking for all the world like they’ve crash landed.

Sunbathing helps spread the oil produced by the preen gland, which keeps their feathers in good condition. As the temperature rises, it can also force parasites out from between the feathers.

Where to spot a Wren

‘Where’ to spot a Wren is not the challenge, as they live across the whole of the UK except the very highest highlands, year-round. How to spot a Wren is a different story!

Fortunately, they often have a favourite spot, so if you hear one singing its heart out then you’ll likely see one in that area if you visit often enough. For example, there is one that hangs around the conifers in my parents’ garden, and every now and then I catch a glimpse when I open the back door.

Putting a shallow bowl of water out somewhere near shelter can help, as many traditional birdbaths are far too deep for a wren to bathe in.

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Alternatively, keep an eye out in shrubs and on piles of fallen logs when you’re out and about and you might even catch a glimpse of a Wren as it perches in the open - momentarily – to check you out.

They rarely venture high up into the branches, so look out for mouse-like movements at eye level and lower.

Easily confused with

Cetti’s warbler

Another explosively loud bird, Wrens and Cetti’s Warblers can be tricky to tell apart – especially as they often have twigs or leaves covering up their main identifying features! Cetti’s, however, have a slightly longer tail and no pattern on their wings or tail. They are bigger, too, and less likely to look like an almost perfectly circular bird.

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Cetti’s are found near water, so while that can help you rule them out in dense woodland, if you’re near a river or pond it could be either.

Dunnock

The Wren shares a lot of behaviour with the Dunnock – skulking around in and under hedges, occasionally perching up high. But the Wren is much smaller, often has a yellow lower mandible (the bottom half of the beak) and has a paler throat/breast.

Dunnock’s have lovely streaky backs, while the Wren’s pattern is more delicate and shows mostly on the wings and tail. Dunnocks are usually grey around the face, too, while Wrens are brown and buff all over.

Bonus Wren facts

• The Latin name, Troglodytes troglodytes, comes from the Greek for ‘hole dweller’.

• Wren nests are often made in thick undergrowth, and are dome-shaped with a little hole at the front. They sometimes make use of man-made objects like old footwear or pots inside sheds, lining them with twigs to create a nest.

• In winter, Wrens often roost together – cuddled up in corners and old nestboxes.

• Our Eurasian Wren is the only ‘old world’ Wren (which is why it’s simply called ‘Wren’ without any additions descriptors).

• There are 96 species of Wren in the world, including the Giant, Rufous, Tooth-billed and Happy Wrens.

• Male Wrens build the nests, which females then choose from to select their partner. Both parents incubate the eggs and rear the chicks. However, a male Wren may have more than one female Wren raising chicks at the same time.

• In folklore, a Wren and an Eagle competed for the title of King of the Birds by seeing who could fly the highest. The Wren flew on the back of the Eagle, only letting go to fly higher still once the eagle tired – winning the title with cunningness rather than strength.

• The ‘king’ title follows the Wren everywhere. It is called Zaunkönig (king of the fence) in German, winterkoning (winter king) in Dutch and King of the winds in Japan.

• There are thought to be up 113 million adult Wrens living in Europe.

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Have you seen a Wren this week? Did you know they’re the most common bird in the UK?

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Broom Gravel Pits is still owned by a tarmac company, but the wildlife doesn’t care about trespassing. This spot is a haven for waders and waterfowl despite being further from the sea than almost any other body of water in the UK.

The Little Grebe, above and below, seems to have found a Crayfish in the flooded quarry. They created quite the commotion, chasing each other around in wide arcs.

After a while, the chasing adult gave up and let the juvenile enjoy his catch. I continued along a winding footpath, crunchy with golden leaves. Today is uncharacteristically quiet.

Until, that is, you approach the main section of water. Here, hundreds of Greylag Geese have gathered, alongside gulls, ducks and around 50 Lapwings.

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The only bird ‘song’ is the honk-onk-onk as the geese come in to land, and the occasional warbling wail from a Little Grebe.

But before long, Gadwalls join in with a peeping alarm call. The Black-Headed Gulls add their crying screams and a couple of Lapwings take to the wing with hysterical peeee-eeeee calls… something has spooked them.

The hysteria spreads and soon all the smaller birds take to the air in a flurry of whooshing wings. The sound of a hundred goose feet splashing as they scramble to get airborne adds to the din.

A large bird of prey appears, flying purposefully over the trees. Not the lazy flap of a Red Kite or the high-up soaring of a Buzzard, but around the same (impressive) size. It’s a wandering Marsh Harrier – a female, with chocolate brown plumage and a yellow-white crown and throat.

She flies in characteristic Marshie style, big, busy flaps over the scrub at the water’s edge. Her long, black primary feathers give a finger-like appearance to the tip of her wings.

Here and there she pauses, lifting with her wings stretched upwards as her long yellow legs drop down below her. She’s looking for unsuspecting waterfowl – often Moorhen – though the crescendo of alarm calls surrounding her surely makes her task difficult.

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After several passes and no successful catches, she moved on. But eyes still skyward, there were other fearsome hunters to watch out for.

First, a Kestrel appeared on the scene like a bullet in shape and speed. The black tear-drop under her eye, the black band at the tip of the tail and that short-yet-streamlined shape tell us she’s not a Sparrowhawk.

This one is a female – larger than the male, with no blue-grey head and darker brown plumage.

As if that wasn’t enough, she shows off the Kestrel special – a perfect hover. Unlike Buzzards, who can only give the appearance of hovering by flying into a stiff wind, Kestrels can perform this trick on the stillest of days.

When she moved on, I thought the Marshie had returned. Less noise from the waterfowl, however – and a forked tail soon showed it to be a red kite.

They have a slow manner of flapping and soaring. This one is extremely large, so must also be a female. She soared over the path and tree tops, then briefly out into the open for a photo opp.

Spending most of their time scouring the ground for carrion rather than hunting for themselves (though they are certainly capable of doing so), she quickly clocks me and my camera. Disliking the obvious attention, she moves over the trees and disappears from sight.

Time to move on. With all these birds of prey around, there is unlikely to be much bird activity for a while, so it’s time to go home! Thankfully, I had left a memory card in my camera when I sent it off, so I have some rather charming photos to share from a month ago.

This Jay was posing on old farm machinery, looking decidedly like it was up to something.

We watched each other for a while. It soon realised I wasn’t going to go anywhere, so it produced the treasure it had been hiding and made off.

An acorn! No doubt destined to be hidden in some nook or cranny for consumption at a later date… if the Jay remembers its location.

I have enjoyed photographing behaviour instead of just pretty still shots this week. These birds will be with us throughout winter, so hopefully there will be plenty more shenanigans in the coming weeks!

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Thanks for reading. As ever, I’d love to know what you’ve seen this past week or so – wherever you are in the world!

Gem

You never know who might show up, so always look up when you hear that rush of wings overhead! You might just see a flock of Spoonbills.

This weird and wonderful bird flies with its legs and neck outstretched, and with that enormous beak it looks quite bizarre as it does so. They used to breed in the UK until the 17th century, and have recolonised as of around 2010.

The number of breeding pairs is still counted in tens rather than hundreds, so they are scarce but not an unusual sight in this region. So sights like the below aren’t quite as surprising to the locals as they were to me!

The visitor centre is nestled among some trees, and from there you can take a long gravel path across tidal marshes to the sea. Turning off from the path takes you past ponds to hides that look out over the fens, or to big hides over the scrapes.

Scrapes are shallow areas, often revealed or increased in size by the retreating tide. They are the perfect spot for wading birds to forage.

Take a look at the mixed group above. From left to right we have a napping Lapwing, a Black-Tailed Godwit and a Black-Headed Gull. Then in the main group we have a few Golden Plover – which gather in their hundreds here – and some sleeping Shoveler ducks.

But who is that little grey bird with the white neck right in the middle? Just hiding behind a duck in the image below.

A Ruff – sadly not in its fantastic breeding plumage (seriously worth a Google!). And there are groups of birds all over the reserve with little surprises like this one hiding among them.

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The scrubby marsh on the left of the main path almost disappears under the very highest tides. It is, therefore, topped up with invertebrates, molluscs and whatever else waders are looking for when they feed. But once it has dried out again, the land-loving regulars come back, too.

A female Reed Bunting is just about the most obliging year-round poser you’ll find. And the male follows suit.

Of course, there are Dunnocks and Linnets to be seen. Scrubby bushes near busy paths is a great place to photograph these birds. The backdrop looks ‘wild’, but the birds are used to people coming and going.

At this time of year, many of the birds that have relied on caterpillars and flying insects to feed their young are now eating seeds. They gather in mixed groups to do so, often taking off in a cloud of alarm calls before you even realise they are there.

The waders join in, with Redshanks making a beautiful piping call as they flee.

The beach has its own ‘regulars’ – Turnstones – who potter around in little groups. They can be seen clinging onto the rocks while foraging among the seaweed, even while being battered by wind, rain and waves.

And everyone’s favourite small waders: Sanderlings. They are tiny and have a real ‘cutesy’ expression. They run towards the sea as the waves draw back, then retreat up the beach as the water surges forward again.

But the most enchanting sight I saw here might surprise you… it’s a goose. Or rather, thousands upon thousands of Pink-Footed Geese, arriving here from Greenland and Iceland.

If you arrive at the reserve early, you can watch the sun rise as skeins of geese in V formation fly overhead, calling. As more geese arrive, you can’t help but feel quite small and insignificant – quite a reassuring feeling, I think.

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I have departed from my rule not to write about anywhere that costs money to access. I believe you can see all of the wildlife mentioned here at other locations nearby that are free to access, but I don’t have the local knowledge to be sure.

I am interested to hear any feedback on this decision, especially if you have any strong/negative opinions about it! I often only have a day or two in each location, so I do tend to head to the big paid-for reserves. RSPB charge £7 to access this reserve; I will refrain from focussing on some of the pricier reserves.

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That’s all for this week! Thank you so much for reading. As usual, I’d love to know what you’ve seen out and about while I was in Titchwell!

Gem

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This secretive bird is the Water Rail. You’ll find these across most of England and Wales in places that have reeds and aren’t too busy. They’re here all year, but this is a particularly good time to see them as the vegetation they usually hide in is dying back.

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Listen out for a shrieking, squealing call, but be prepared to sit and wait… very patiently. They are not easy to spot! Despite being ‘green listed’ (meaning they aren’t a concern in conservation terms), most birders consider them to be a special sight.

A new visitor to keep your eyes out for in the centre of England is this charming yellow finch, the Siskin. Buckle up, because they are utterly fascinating, so I’ve lots to say! (They also happen to be one of my favourite birds.)

This is a male – he has a black cap and bib and more defined streaking and yellow colour. Apparently, the size of the bib relates to their position with the flock hierarchy. I’ve seen some males with barely any black under their beak at all, so this one might be quite an important chap.

They do live in the South and North of England, and in Scotland and Wales, year round, but in summer they’re hard to find. There’s even an old German legend that they hide a magical stone in their nest that makes them invisible during the breeding season.

This one is feeding on the seeds in the cones of an Alder tree, one of their favourite foods. Siskin’s streaky plumage and habit of feeding very high up make them difficult to spot. But they do make a delightful ‘pew, pew!’ call as they fly about in flocks, which can alert you to their presence.

Finally, they are very unusual among birds in that they do a thing called ‘allofeeding’, where subordinate adults regurgitate food for the dominant ones – the males feed males, and the females feed females. All in all, a very unusual finch.

While it’s easy to mourn the bustling boughs of leaves we’ve grown accustomed to over the past six months, the bare branches do have their benefits. Treecreepers are small, shy and brown – hard to spot in the shade of a full canopy. Not so any more.

They’re often so absorbed in their business – the business of picking bugs out of crevices – that they don’t notice you watching them. They start at the bottom of a tree and work their way up, then fly down to the bottom of the next tree and start again.

It’s also time to consider saying goodbye to your favourite invertebrates, as they may soon disappear until next year.

This striking moth is a Red Underwing. They fly from late July to the end of September, but usually land with their red ‘underwings’ hidden. When showing, it’s thought that predators might think the red section is the whole moth. If a bird was to peck just the red section, the moth would likely survive the damage and be able to fly.

The Common Darter is one of our most common dragonflies. It prefers still water – from ponds to lakes – and can be seen until November. They aren’t territorial away from breeding areas (water), so sometimes gather in large numbers to hunt across fields.

As they hunt by ambush, you might find a suitable perch with a row of Common Darters on it, all waiting for some unsuspecting prey to pass by. That is, if a Little Egret hasn’t eaten them all…

In woodlands, migrant Goldcrests are arriving from Scandinavia and Russia to join our resident birds. At this time of year, they can be found in flocks of ‘assorted tits’. I saw several small family groups in with Long-Tailed Tits this week.

The time of their migration coincides with Woodcocks, which gave rise to the rumour that Goldcrests would catch a ride on their backs! People didn’t believe tiny Goldcrests could survive crossing the North Sea by themselves, so this was the obvious answer.

And of course, winter thrushes are due to join us over the coming weeks, too. Redwings make a thin, whining ‘seep, seep’ call, while Fieldfares are much bigger and make a kind of ‘chack-chack-chack’ call.

They’ll be gathering wherever there are berries to eat, from Dogwood trees to Hawthorn and Rowan (as in the photos).

There are some birds that manage to stay hidden despite the bare branches and lack of leaves. See if you can spot the two in this photo:

The one at the top of the heap is admittedly pretty easy if you know you’re looking for it! This is a pair of Snipe, and the second one is on the lower-left of the heap of foliage. Their cryptic colouring kept them so well hidden that a marauding Moorhen almost stood on the one at the top!

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That’s all for this week. I’d love to know what you’ve seen while I’ve been rustling around in the reeds (again!) – have any winter visitors appeared near you yet?

Gem

My beloved camera should be back in my hands in a week or two, and I’m planning to take it somewhere special to celebrate.

These beautiful highland cows were browsing and resting on the chalk hills where I went looking for the Pied Flycatcher I’ve been dreaming of seeing for years.

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My Granny – Scottish – pronounced it ‘heeland coos’, and I’ll never not say it in my head when I see them. These coos certainly attracted plenty of flies for a potential flycatcher to feast upon.

But after careful checking of photos, the five Flycatchers I spotted were all Spotted (not Pied). Still beautiful, and endlessly entertaining to watch. I can wait for my first Pied.

Elsewhere, this illusive Stoat – was taking a break from defending its reputation as a fearsome hunter. For twenty minutes, it danced and bounced and rolled on the membrane used to suppress the reeds at a local cress-bed reserve.

The Mallards and Moorhens nearby kept a very close eye on its antics, but the Stoat wasn’t thinking about food.

The same location gave me my much-longed-for first photo of a perched Kingfisher.

He’s a male – females have an orange lower ‘mandible’ (the bottom half of their beak).

You can usually tell if a bird is an adult or juvenile, because juveniles have a white tip on the very end of their beak. This bird has lost the very end of his beak, but I do suspect he’s an adult.

On the walk that saw my camera’s demise, there were gravelly paths alongside a canal, lined with Buddleja bushes.

The Buddleja blooms are magnets for butterflies like this Large White, while the Common Blues prefer to hang out in long grass where the Knapweed and Ragwort was flowering not long ago.

Overhead, the Ravens have been very vocal the past few weeks. I snapped this one while borrowing my Dad’s camera.

That diamond-shaped tail that comes to a point (though it’s less obvious in this photo) and the bulging throat are tell-tale signs that this is not a Crow. So is that bulky beak and the sheer size of the bird.

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They’re doing well in Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire, following a decade or more of increases in their populations. As a kid, I’d never have seen one of these unless I was on holiday far away. Now, they nest alongside Peregrine’s at the nearby electricity substation.

This beautiful Robin is showing off some beautiful plumage. It has come through this year’s moult and is ready for it’s role as ‘star of the festive season’ in a few months’ time.

On this week in 2023, I borrowed a macro lens to explore my garden in finer detail. These Parent Bugs were some of the most obliging subjects.

They are a type of Shield Bug, but have earned their name because all other Shield Bug species abandon their eggs to their fate without a backward glance. The female Parent Bug stays with her eggs and young, protecting them until they are full grown.

Talking of babies getting all grown up – this year’s Goldfinches are finally getting some red on their faces. Until now, they’ve been very plain (and the subject of many ID requests on Facebook bird groups!).

Over the coming weeks I’m hoping to visit a beautiful pine woodland to share here. It’s a bit of a monoculture (except for the patches of invasive Rhododendron).

But the striking orange sand and dying-back bracken against the deep green of the pine trees make for a nice change of scene. And with partridges, woodpeckers and winter finches (eventually), it can be surprisingly lively.

Until then, let me know what wildlife you’ve encountered this week. And thanks for being here!

Gem

This week, we’re crunching through the leaf litter in a small deciduous woodland. There’s a marked change in the air now, with ‘cold’ being the presumed default temperature when waking in the morning.

At the very edge of this small ancient woodland, the wild wind carries leaves and insects haphazardly along the hedge line. A glut of fallen crab apples is starting to rot, pleasantly souring the air. Wasps whizz past my head, only semi in control of their direction of travel.

Moving into the woods, the tree-line offers protection from the howling, chilling, drying wind. It’s much darker in here, but also warmer and damper. A range of new sounds can be heard: creaking old trees, crunching leaves and the alarm calls of a flock of assorted tits.

There’s the Blue Tit’s sharp ‘peep peep!’ and the Great Tit’s growly chatter, all with a backdrop of high-pitched tweeting from the Long-Tailed Tits.

Mostly, these birds remain hidden by the leaves that the trees are still clinging onto. Every now and then, one breaks cover to take advantage of a particularly tempting food source.

Sometimes, you catch an out-of-place Spring or Summer call, like the Chiffchaff’s signature song. Perhaps it’s a youngster, practicing? Or an adult declaring its territory for the winter.

I encountered an extremely strange sound in the woods this week – it sounded like a sad, slow chicken, but it was at the top of a very tall beech tree. I’d never heard anything like it, and with migration underway there’s always a chance something really odd will show up!

I paced around the bottom of the tree and cursed its thick canopy of leaves as the sad chicken mocked me with further cries. Then, a small distance away, the distinct drumming of a Great Spotted Woodpecker started up.

And the chicken answered it! Or rather, mimicked it – not by drumming, but with a throaty call that sounded remarkably similar.

At this point I felt sure I’d never find out what was making the noise, although the mimickry pointed towards some sort of corvid. As I stepped back from under the tree, ready to give up… there it was. A large, black bird perched on the top of the tree.

My mysterious misery-chicken! A Carrion Crow.

They’re weird, they’re clever and they’re SO charming. And they stick with us throughout winter, so hopefully I’ll get to know this one a bit better over the coming weeks.

As you may know from my many frenzied Notes, I broke my beloved camera. But I dug out my old Pixel 6, which has a far superior camera to my current phone. It’s not good enough for birds or mammals, but it captured an array of smaller (yet equally stunning) ancient woodland inhabitants. There is so much to see!

There are… Hornets, gathering pollen from the ivy.

Snails, balancing precariously on leaves after a downpour.

Mushrooms and toadstools pushing their caps above the leaf litter, or pouring out of dead wood.

Magical moss covers everything from waist-height downwards.

Ivy climbs and covers everything that the moss does not.

All manner of creatures are drawn to the Ivy, which produces an abundance of pollen long after the summer flowers have all faded.

Even old, dead trees that have seemingly nothing left to give are riddled with life – microbes, fungi and invertebrates slowly break down what’s left.

It’s a profound moment, seeing a 100-year old trunk turned back into dust. Dust that will nurture the saplings that will support the forest ecosystem for the next century to come.

Thank you for joining me on my wander, I hope you enjoyed it even without the usual range of birds! I was surprised how much I loved hunting for these little scenes with just an old phone to capture them.

Jasper was proud to find this (disused) Badger sett. I often wonder what he’d make of badgers (and what they’d make of his badger-face markings!). What did you see, while I was scampering in the woodland with Jasper this week?!

Gem

It’s one of the most exciting times of year for birdwatchers – Autumn migration is starting. Look to the skies in any part of the country, and who knows what you might see?

Many of our own birds are on their way South. But there are also birds from colder parts of Europe who use the UK as a handy stop to refuel on their journey. Some even stay to enjoy our relatively milder winter.

This week, I was on the beautiful North Devon coast. I headed to Fremington Quay, as it often appears on my BirdGuides as hosting rare visitors, as well as being home to many of the usual seaside suspects.

On arrival, you drive along a single-track road with a little wooden fence that separates you from the mudflats, exposed alongside the tidal river. Tempting though it is, you can’t take your eyes off the road to look at the abundance of waders foraging alongside the river!

I managed to stay focussed and reach the carpark, and immediately headed to the bridge. On one side, the brown river trickles towards you. On the other, the estuary opens out into a wide ocean vista, with a pebbly beach down one side. That’s where I’m heading first.

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Here, the salty sea air becomes somehow more briny, thanks to the brown-green seaweed heaped over the rocks. The only birdsong is the bickering of Black-Headed Gulls, which have only a small speck of black summer plumage remaining – just behind their eyes.

As I scanned the crowd of gulls, though, a brownish shape was moving around behind them. Like most waders, it kept its head down for a frustratingly long time, hiding its most identifiable feature: its beak.

A kind man with a camera like mine had tipped me off about a Black-Tailed Godwit, or ‘blackwit’ around here. Could this be it?

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When it did eventually raise its head, a long, downward curved bill became apparent. Not a blackwit, they have straight bills. So this is a Curlew or a Whimbrel. Curlews are larger, with more uniform golden-brown plumage on their heads and an enormously long beak. Whimbrels have a pale stripe above their eye and a dark ‘crown’ above that, and their bill is slightly shorter and less curved.

A Whimbrel*! Pacing the line where the waves lap the beach, it probes its beak almost to the hilt, looking for molluscs and crustaceans. Anything caught gets thrown swiftly to the back of the throat in one deft movement. It’s fascinating to watch them as they work the shore.

*The photo above is actually not a Whimbrel. It’s a juvenile male Curlew (thank you for your kind correction). You can sex a Curlew by the length of its bill; females have a longer, more curved beak. I’ll leave the photo in for comparison with the image, below, which is indeed a Whimbrel. This is testament to how difficult ID-ing waders can be. And now we all know how to sex a Curlew. Win–win!

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The terrain changes as the path meanders over a grass verge, which you follow the top of until you come to a duck pond. The pond, to the left, is alive with Little Egrets, bathing gulls, ducks, a family of Mute Swans and a wailing Little Grebe. There are often Cormorants among the egrets here, but I can only see one and it looks… weird. Proportionally, it’s all wrong.

This bird has a long, downward curved beak… but this is not a Curlew or a Whimbrel. It’s black! This is Fremington’s most famous guest: a Glossy Ibis that has visited the location on and off for years. I managed to get a record shot (heavily cropped, above) then turned heel and ran from the approaching squally downpours.

Back across the beach, some newcomers had arrived. Large waders, brown – with straight beaks. I thought the Godwit had evaded me, but it was just gathering its friends! Seven in total, purposefully striding alongside the Oystercatchers, gulls and Whimbrel.

I honestly thought that was it for the day, and was pretty happy with my haul of photos. But on my drive out alongside the river, one of only four precious parking spaces was available! I have waited years for the chance to inspect the tidal mudflats up close – and I was not disappointed.

At first, lots of Redshanks. There are about 70 in the photo below, whereas I usually only see one or two at a time at other locations.

Then a Greenshank, not a bird I see very often. I love how cute and unassuming they look. Their darker wing feathers are bordered with intricate details – extremely pretty.

Somehow, the star of the show was something I’d already seen – a Glossy Ibis! The same one? I don’t know. I assume local birders would have noticed if there were two here. Closer this time, allowing a better photo, though the dull light didn’t fully showcase the beautiful iridescence of its feathers.

But it didn’t keep my head turned for long. Nor did the Grey Heron or Little Egrets, or even the Buzzard that scattered the waders as it patrolled overhead.

Emerging from the long grass, the missing puzzle piece. A sideway glance from this tall, golden bird with exquisitely detailed plumage reveals the beak of the day. It’s a Curlew!

Critically endangered, these birds have the most hauntingly beautiful call (listen to it here). I’ll never forget waking up in a campsite at the coast to hear their song echoing across the countryside.

While our Curlews often spend their winters in Ireland of France, we get an influx from Scandinavia, so they can be seen on most of the English coastline year-round. The UK and Ireland are home to 25% of the global population of this species and, like many of the birds in this post, they are on our ‘red list’ of most endangered bird species.

The muddy margins of a tidal river might not make the most photogenic backdrop, but thanks to the nutrients in the silt they support a huge range of invertebrates, and therefore the birds that feed on them too.

And perhaps best of all, they’re often free to visit. Just… don’t venture onto the actual mud. It’s extremely dangerous (and entirely unnecessary).

Thanks for reading – I’d love to hear what you’ve spotted out and about while I was gallivanting in Devon!

Gem