Yep, that’s right, folks – spring is officially here. February has now shuffled wearily offstage, taking with it the winter of 2025-26, and this first day of March represents day one of meteorological spring. I write these lines with a nagging sense of trepidation though, not wishing to put a jinx on the whole thing, nor to be roundly blamed when the next month turns out cold and miserable. After all, spring here in North-east Scotland is a fickle mistress; we’ve all lived through enough ‘teuchit storms’ and ‘beasts from the east’ to realise it too. But hey, let’s not allow pragmatism to get in the way of optimism all the time.

In case anyone’s wondering about the term ‘teuchit storm’ by the way, this is an expression which, as far as I know, is peculiar to the North-east. In the Doric language of Aberdeenshire – which, like so many regional dialects, is sadly on the wane these days – Teuchit (rough pronunciation ‘chook-it’) is one of the many old names for the Lapwing. It was said that the Lapwings always began nesting immediately after the last big storm of the season, which often took place in early spring; this last blast of winter’s fury was thus the ‘teuchit storm’. The passing of this storm then signalled the start of spring in earnest – or so the theory goes.

Sadly, breeding Lapwings in the North-east have gone much the same way as the Doric language: once an everyday feature of rural life, now much-declined and with an uncertain future. Locally, though, Lapwings are still hanging on as a breeding species alongside the upper reaches of the Ythan Estuary, while Continental-breeding Lapwings continue to overwinter with us in reasonable numbers. We remain hopeful that both the birds, and the language that surrounds them, can endure the huge changes currently taking place in the world.

Anyway, having got the weather-related disclaimers out of the way at the start of this piece, we can now start to look ahead to the season at hand. Spring is a particularly exciting time for the naturalist, not least because things begin to diversify again after the winter lull. Throughout the winter, I am aware that this blog tends to subsist on a rather restricted diet: chiefly birds, seals and whatever the weather chucks at us. But come the spring, we can add into the mix all those ingredients that have been absent over the past few months: plants, insects, amphibians and so on. Variety is undoubtedly the spice of life, and the new season brings with it a welcome chance of variety.

Lesser Celandines are invariably one of the very first flowers to emerge each spring. Their glossy green leaves have already been up for some time now, but it’s only when the flowers open that this plant becomes really obvious. Each individual flower resembles a child’s drawing of the sun, which is entirely appropriate for a plant that craves sunlight. On a typical spring day, when the sunshine comes and goes in between the passing of clouds, so the Celandine flowers open and close in synchrony. The net result is that you could easily walk past a patch of them on an overcast day without realising they’re there at all – but the next day when the sun is out, you’d be hard-pressed to miss them.

Tough, hardy and the bane of many a tidy-minded gardener, the humble Dandelion is another reliable early-season flower. If you can bring yourself to spare some of these much-maligned plants in your own garden, you’ll be doing a big favour to any early-emerging insects on the go in this next few weeks. For species such as Buff-tailed and White-tailed Bumblebees, which hibernate overwinter as adults, an early feed of nectar immediately after emergence is crucial. Dandelions provide that very opportunity, at a time when other sources of nectar are still very thin on the ground.

The same applies for butterflies which overwinter as adults too. The classic example is the Small Tortoiseshell, another species in long-term decline, and one which could use all the help it can get. So consider being an ‘untidy’ gardener – not only will you save wear and tear on your back, but you’ll help save some wildlife too.

During the latter part of the winter, while doing some work in the garden at home, I happened upon this winter ‘roost’ of Small Tortoiseshells in the remains of an old wheelbarrow. Here, sheltered from the elements and tucked away out of sight of any predators, they had been seeing out the cold North-east winter. Having noticed them and taken a quick photo, we quickly returned them to a shady spot in the woodshed before they started to stir. Waking up too early can be a fatal mistake for insects such as these.

‘Small Torts’, as they’re affectionately known, also appear regularly in the Forvie workshop in spring, where we usually find them fluttering at the windows on fine days. Having overwintered somewhere in the spacious and unheated building – a perfect place to see out the winter – they often require a helping hand to find their way back outside again.

Aside from insects, it’s also the season for amphibian emergence. All three of Forvie’s resident species – Common Toad, Palmate Newt and Common Frog – will be in evidence this next wee while, commuting from their winter hideouts to their breeding sites in the freshwater pools and lochs across the Reserve. Mind your feet on the tracks and footpaths just now!

Early spring is the time when Forvie’s Grey Seal haul-out reaches its annual numerical peak. As their numbers increase, though, so too does the difficulty of accurately counting them: as we’ve observed in the past, it can be difficult to discern where one seal ends and the next one starts.

We count the seals roughly every second week, ideally at low tide, while viewing the haul-out from the high dunes south of Newburgh village. One such count recently took place immediately before a drone count by seal researcher Claire Stainfield, with whom we share data. My ‘manual’ count – using a telescope, a tally counter and the good old Mk.1 eyeball – produced a total of 1,528 seals, which I thought seemed a bit high. I counted them again, this time without the tally counter, dividing them up instead into blocks of 10. This time I totalled 1,550. I wasn’t especially happy with the accuracy of the count, as the seals were so tightly packed together, so with this caveat added I passed my numbers to Claire.

Later on, Claire informed me that the drone count had revealed a total of 1,558 seals, a difference of just 1.9% from my original ‘manual’ count. Perhaps I should have a little more courage in my convictions!

So that’s the spring of 2026 officially underway then. You heard it here first. Just don’t blame me, though, if it goes all ‘teuchit storm’ on us!

If we were put on the spot, and asked to pick a single theme for each month of the year at Forvie, some months would be easier than others. For instance, wild flowers would be an automatic pick for June, while July would undoubtedly belong to the butterflies and moths. And as it turns out, February is a straightforward one too: this is the month of the year for wildfowl. Both here on the Reserve and throughout the wider region, February is all about the things that honk and quack.

February is a great month for ducks. Like all wildfowl, they pair up in the winter, prior to migrating northwards for the breeding season, and February is peak time for displaying and pair-forming. This means that all our ducks are resplendent in their ‘summer’ breeding plumage right now – unlike, for instance, waders and songbirds, that tend to be dowdy in winter and won’t acquire their attractive colours until spring. So while we don’t generally associate winter wildlife with bright colours, ducks are the notable and honourable exception.

Display among ducks involves an audio as well as a visual component. The drakes (males) of most species have some sort of display-call, which they use in conjunction with their bright plumage and well-rehearsed dance moves in an attempt to impress the ladies. Contrary to this week’s title, of course, ducks don’t just quack; these display-calls vary widely between species, and many of them can sound (to our ears at least) very un-duck-like.

Anyone who’s visited Forvie during winter and spring is probably familiar with the crooning calls of the Eider drakes on the estuary, which reserve manager Catriona describes as sounding like ‘a group of Morningside tea-ladies who have just heard a particularly scandalous piece of gossip’. “Ooooh, he didn’t? Oooooh, he did you know! Ooooooh!“. Judge for yourself though!

The drake Wigeon, meanwhile, gives vent to a splendid glissando whistling call, which when heard in chorus from a big flock makes for a wonderfully musical wall of sound. Individually, it sounds a bit like someone sneezing through a clown’s whistle – but maybe that’s just me.

The tiny Teal, our smallest duck, has a tiny voice to match. The female (who does indeed quack) sounds rather like a Mallard played back at double speed, as if you’d selected the wrong rpm on the record deck. The drake, however, has a delightful cricket-like whistle, which is a familiar sound on Cotehill and Sand Lochs in late winter.

Sand Loch was actually the scene of some duck-related slapstick farce on Monday afternoon. Walking along the road from Collieston up to the Reserve office, I got as far as Sand Loch Corner when something caught my eye on the loch. Upon raising my binoculars, an unforgivable explosion of blasphemy ensued, followed by a 300-metre dash (wearing waterproofs and rigger boots, to the likely amusement of the neighbours) back to our house.

Regular readers will be aware that I’m very keen on my ‘garden list’ – the long list of bird species that I’ve seen from my own property – and of the helpful fact that we overlook about half of Sand Loch from our back garden. Anyway, here on the loch were no fewer than five cracking drake Pochards – an excruciatingly rare species on the local patch these days – and a long, long-awaited ‘garden tick’. I’ve now made that same headlong dash back to the house a number of times (for Common Scoter, Smew, Black-throated Diver, Bee-eater and others besides), and every time I’ve done so, I’ve been reduced to a wheezing wreck at risk of a massive coronary – but it’s been sooooo worth it.

From quackers to honkers now, and wild geese have been a prominent feature of life during this past month. Large flocks have been present by day on the stubble-fields and pasture surrounding the Reserve and northwards into the parish of Slains, and at nightfall they convene to roost either on the estuary or the local lochs. As per usual, the vast majority of the numbers are made up by Pink-footed Geese, winter visitors to our shores from Iceland.

Watching wild geese going about their business is one of life’s pleasures. Wary and unapproachable as they are, it can be difficult to get good views of a flock on the ground, but this past few days we’ve been lucky. This was the view through the ‘scope from the roadside just south of the Collieston crossroads one day last week.

Just like us, geese are sociable and gregarious creatures, and like us they are possessed of strong family ties too. It’s possible within the flock to discern discrete family groups comprising mum, dad and last year’s young, and to note the ‘pecking order’ between families (often in the literal sense). And on top of this, there’s the added spice of seeking out other species hiding among the throngs of Pink-feet.

Last weekend, one particular flock of geese at Slains, just a couple of miles north of the Reserve, contained no fewer than seven species of wild geese. These comprised species from a huge swathe of the northern hemisphere, stretching from North America through Greenland and Iceland to Spitsbergen and arctic Russia – all together in one field in Aberdeenshire. Politically speaking, it’s a strange age we’re living in, and it’s somehow reassuring that nature pays no regard to the borders and boundaries drawn on maps by humanity. Like it or not, we’re inextricably linked to the rest of planet earth – and the geese of Slains are a case in point!

Some of the more unusual geese from faraway lands are easier to spot than others. The white dot in the photo above is the easiest species of all to pick out among the Pinks – a Snow Goose from North America.

Next easiest are the Barnacle Geese, dapper in black and white, which occur regularly in our region in small numbers among their Pink-footed cousins.

Trickier to pick out are the lovely White-fronted Geese from arctic Russia – similar in size and colouration to the Pink-feet, but with a white forehead and pinky bill that give the impression of an ice-cream cornet stuck on the face. Those lovely dark bars across the tummy are a good fieldmark too.

We always like this blog to be a bit interactive, so now it’s your go. How many species of geese are there in the following pic?

I should apologise for the dreadful quality of the photo, which doesn’t make the task any easier – but in fairness, it was taken with a phone camera through the eyepiece of the telescope! Anyway, answer below…

• Blue outline: Greylag Goose, a common breeder in the lochs and glens of northern Scotland. Big and pale, with bubblegum-pink legs and orange beak.
• Red outline: Pink-footed Goose, winter visitor from Iceland. Smallish, with dark head and neck and rose-pink legs.
• Orange outline: Tundra Bean Goose, rare visitor from Russian Arctic. Darker plumage than Pink-footed, with bright jaffa-orange legs.

In the best tradition of all television quizzes, ‘Well done if you got that at home’. If you did, you’re clearly as quackers about honkers as we are. And that, in my opinion, is no bad way to be.

When signing in to commence writing this week’s piece, I was helpfully informed by WordPress that this will be my 271^st post since we started up the Forvie blog in 2019. While this was a slightly scary stat in its own right (How did that happen?! Where has all that time gone?!!), it also prompted a brief moment of reflection. Having written 270 previous posts, I am always acutely conscious of avoiding repetition, and of the need to keep things fresh – though this isn’t generally too difficult in a place like Forvie, where there’s just so much going on.

However, while the thing practically writes itself in some weeks, in others I can find myself scratching around for interesting items with which to construct a cohesive story. This past few weeks, with the relentlessly dull weather and even duller subject matter (“Look, we dug another ditch…”) have been a case in point. So it’s a great relief to me when an obvious theme comes and punches me in the face (not literally of course) – such as this week, when practically all the noteworthy items started with the letter S.

The most notable S, and the chief talking-point among everyone here in the past few days, was the strange celestial phenomenon which we experienced on Thursday and Friday. While I can’t be certain about it, I believe that people more familiar with such things call it ‘sunshine’.

Although we were all immensely relieved that the sun had finally deigned to show its face, the Reserve is still very much in thrall to all the water we’ve received from the heavens this past wee while. While taking the monthly water-level readings from the dipwells on the heath, I was reminded that S also stands for ‘submerged’.

S also stands for ‘soggy’, which is an apt descriptor for much of the Reserve just now. This was the scene from the driver’s seat in the pickup truck on Tuesday, when I traversed the Rockend track from Waterside to the beach. As a driver, it’s at times like these that you cross your fingers, and offer up prayers to the patron saint of blessed rubber door-seals. And lo! the door-seals repelled the water, and Daryl was thankful, and he declared that those door-seals were good.

Unsurprisingly, my arrival at Rockend saw the old fishing-bothy full of water too. A selection of rubbish floating around inside the bothy included, amusingly and appropriately, a large pink buoy which will be repurposed for use on the ternery barrier fence a little later in the year. So it seems that S might also stand for ‘scrounging reserve wardens’. It also unequivocally stands for ‘suitable clothing’, as this was the only litter-pick I’ve ever done that necessitated chest waders.

The bothy was in fact as far as I was able to get with the truck. The same series of storms (more good S words there) that brought all that rain also served to shift countless tons of sand at Rockend, and our vehicle access to the beach has now been emphatically – and perhaps permanently – cut off. The Oldkirk Burn now runs in a deep channel right across the end of the track, with the vertical sand-cliffs on either side rendering the area completely impassable by vehicle.

As ever, we’ll have to roll with the punches thrown by our capricious climate, and come up with another way of getting all the fencing gear down the beach come the spring. But it won’t be easy, and is likely to considerably increase the volume and difficulty of our work. Turns out S also stands for ‘sweary words’, which obviously I won’t reproduce in print here, but suffice to say there have been a few used this week.

Most of the week’s sweary words were in fact reserved for the ‘special’ person (there are many more S words I could have chosen) who dumped three heaps of Japanese Knotweed cuttings at the entrance to the Waulkmill bird hide track. This is absolutely illegal on every level: as if fly-tipping wasn’t bad enough on its own, dumping notifiable waste comprising a highly invasive non-native species onto a nature reserve is the ne plus ultra of another S word – ‘stupidity’.

This represents weapons-grade stupidity on a number of levels, not least because the dumped waste contained roots and rhizomes that would quite happily have re-grown if left in-situ, thus effectively infesting a new location with this pernicious plant.

Depending on what sources you read, Japanese Knotweed costs the UK economy somewhere between £170 million and £1.5 billion per year (!), which includes damage and devaluation of property, and the resultant requirement for difficult and expensive control measures. The bright spark who dumped the stuff at Waulkmill clearly wasn’t willing to take the responsibility for proper disposal, choosing instead to dump it on land owned by you and I – the Scottish taxpayer. Among countless other S words I could use to describe the perpetrator (and not just S words either), ‘selfish’ is one of the few printable ones.

Anyway, it was now up to us to clear it up (sigh) – but a special mention must go to our friend and neighbour Swanny, who happened to be passing by and stopped to help us out. With Swanny’s help we got all the Knotweed removed from the site, and all that remained to be done was to incinerate it safely. By the time we’d finished that particular job, we each smelt like we had a sixty-a-day Woodbine habit. Continuing the week’s theme seamlessly, S also stands for ‘stinking of smoke’.

A much happier story with which to finish up. At the end of the week, the Forvie team – including five of our superstar volunteers – joined up with the Newburgh & Ythan Community Trust and local residents to help clear the blown sand off the boardwalk at Newburgh beach. When I say ‘clear the blown sand’, what I actually mean is shovel about 20 tons (yes, twenty tons) of sand off the wooden structure.

This was proper navvy’s work, but the pleasant sunshine (!!!) and good company helped to speed the job along. What initially looked like a Sisyphean task (now there’s a good S word) soon began to bear fruit, and some good inroads were made before retiring to a local cafe for an excellent coffee and cake, courtesy of the Trust. Now that’s my kind of partnership working!

As I type this, the light is fading at the end of a fine day, and it’s time for me to sign off for the weekend. My work for the week is done, and at this point I am reminded that S also stands for ‘single malt’. See you again next week – cheers!

I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise that since our last update on these pages, we’ve received another seven days of rain and gales at Forvie. The stuck record which we implored the weather gods to change remains stuck, and the conveyor-belt of Atlantic low-pressure systems just keeps rumbling on, hosing us down with yet more rain each day. Thus the first few weeks of 2026 have comprised the longest period of meteorological dross in living memory – but what’s actually going on here?

Apparently the reason for our perpetual waterboarding is the position of the jet stream, which, due to recent cold conditions in North America, is currently pointing right at us. This delivers an endless succession of low-pressure systems across the Atlantic, which manifest themselves in wet and windy weather at this end. Coincident with this, and unfortunately for us, a robust high-pressure system has set solidly over Scandinavia. This has been acting as a bulwark to the approaching lows, preventing them from continuing eastwards and clearing the UK. The net result is the ‘stuck record’ situation we’ve now been experiencing for several weeks.

To put things into some sort of context, the weather station at Aboyne, about forty miles inland of Forvie, recorded approximately four times more rain in January than the long-term average. As if this wasn’t enough, it then received 100% of its average February rainfall within the first six days of the month. Meanwhile, the weather station at Dyce, just twenty miles from Forvie, recorded its longest spell without any sunshine since 1957. In a delicious piece of irony, this was the very year that Johnny Cash released the album containing Folsom Prison Blues, which I paraphrased last week – “I ain’t seen the sunshine…” and all that. You really couldn’t make it up.

Of course, there’s nothing for it on the Reserve but to carry on regardless. We got out around the trails early in the week to check the state of play with water levels, and to see if the paths remained passable. Remarkably, the Heath Trail remains relatively easy to get around, though the bit that we decided to ‘de-declare’ last year is basically now a loch. But follow the waymarkers, and you should be just fine.

The standing water, if it remains for any length of time, will likely bring about changes in the vegetation of Forvie’s coastal heath. Many species of lichens, which lend the heath its characteristic colour and texture, basically get drowned by extended periods of inundation such as we’re seeing this winter. So in the long term, these are likely to be replaced in the low-lying areas of the heath by plants and mosses who are a bit more flood-tolerant. In the meantime, the submerged lichens resemble the Corallina seaweeds in a coastal rockpool, but with a ghost-town sort of feel to them: a drowned world preserved beneath the water’s surface.

While walking the Heath Trail, we happened upon a Short-eared Owl attempting to hunt in the strong winds and rain. Birds like owls really struggle in conditions such as these: the wind makes flying hard work and impairs their ability to hear, while the rain brings poor visibility and the added hazard of soaked plumage from stooping into the wet vegetation. If they can’t feed, and their feathers become saturated, then death from exposure is a real possibility – particularly when the relentless rain makes it difficult to dry out again once wet. It’s bad enough for us, but unlike the poor old wildlife, we can nip home to a warm and dry house for a change of clothes.

Even the waterbirds have been looking a bit dejected: this Grey Heron at Sand Loch summed up the mood of the week just perfectly with its sulky and sullen appearance.

Mid-week saw us take a brief change of scene, making our way south to Loch Leven NNR for a rare in-person gathering of Reserves staff from all over Scotland. Although the landscape and vista were different – and the chance to socialise with far-flung colleagues was refreshingly enjoyable – the weather was just the same as at home.

On the first day of our two-day excursion, we took a boat trip across to one of the small islands in the loch to help erect some Goldeneye nesting-boxes. These are essentially a giant version of the box you might put up in your garden for Blue Tits or House Sparrows, and however unlikely it seems that a duck would use a nesting-box, they do in fact take readily to these convenient new-build homes. Our ‘sister Reserve’ at Muir of Dinnet, for example, has a proud track record for box-nesting Goldeneye, giving this rare breeding bird a real helping hand.

One of the delightful things about the Goldeneye is the ludicrous display of the drake. Among other mad antics, and with a soundtrack of bizarre wheezing noises, he folds himself more-or-less in half in an attempt to impress the ladies. This alone seems a perfectly valid reason to encourage them to nest at Loch Leven. The world, in my opinion, could do with a few more daffy ducks.

Back on the home patch, we had our own ducks with which to concern ourselves. A high-water count of Eiders and Red-breasted Mergansers on the estuary was notable not so much for the numbers of birds, but for the height of the tide. I recently wrote about how Inch Road used to be a natural island in the estuary, and on occasion this week it almost reverted back to its old form again.

On the opposite side of the Foveran Burn, the estuary had invaded the golf course once again, with the rough and fairways festooned with gulls and wildfowl. Not the best afternoon for a quick round of eighteen.

I must admit to having a soft spot for golfers. Just like us birders, they can be utterly and reassuringly bonkers, with an aptitude for going out in the worst conditions imaginable. Sure enough, with chunks of the course disappearing under the salt water, and with sleety rain lashing down sideways, there were still at least a couple of guys out playing the course. Respect!

So that just about draws another sorry and sodden working week to its conclusion. We’re almost considering taking office jobs…

…AL-MOST!!!!!

Only kidding, I promise. See you again this time next week – snorkels and flippers at the ready!

As January rolls around the bend into February, I think all of us here in the North-east are feeling a bit like Johnny Cash in his classic Folsom Prison Blues – “I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when”. We’re now into our fourth week of unbroken high winds, perpetual rain and permanently overcast skies, and at the time of writing the medium-range forecast is for no change until at least mid-month. We might not be stuck in Folsom Prison, but at the moment we do feel stuck in a bit of a rut, the same dreich and dreary groundhog day being replayed over and over and over. In Johnny’s immortal words, time keeps draggin’ on…

During a particularly violent period of gales early in the week, Catriona headed over to the north-eastern boundary of the Reserve at Perthudden with the hand-held anemometer, to try and get an idea of the windspeed. The 61.6 mph she recorded wasn’t actually the strongest gust, but it was the strongest gust in which she could operate the anemometer in one hand and the phone camera in the other, while actually remaining on her feet.

At the opposite end of the Reserve, wind-lashed estuary and beach have been undergoing a good deal of, er, ‘re-modelling’. Seen from the high dunes south of the Ythan mouth, the landscape appeared raw and barren, with wind-drifted sand covering much of the lower-lying grassland.

On the estuary foreshore, the windward-facing dunes bordering the golf course at Newburgh had endured some considerable erosion, with an eight-foot sand cliff having formed in places where the dunes had been undercut. Strong onshore winds allied to high spring tides tend to generate powerful wave action on the shore, invariably leading to erosion on such a dynamic and soft coastline as ours.

The eroded dunes provide an unusual opportunity to see how Marram Grass ‘works’. We often refer to this plant as one of the building-blocks of Forvie, due to its ability to colonise, and thence stabilise, windblown sand. Marram Grass spreads by rhizomes – subterranean stems – which extend outwards in all directions, periodically pushing shoots upwards through the loose sand, each of which then develops into a new tussock. This network of rhizomes knits together the loose substrate, while the tussocks above trap further windblown sand, forming dunes of ever-increasing height. As the sand accumulates, the grass continues growing upwards towards the light, and the eventual result can be dunes of prodigious height – and rhizomes of prodigious length!

As we’re fond of saying here, the powerful forces of wind and tide take with one hand, and give back with the other – meaning that when there’s erosion going on, there’ll be deposition happening somewhere else. While the windward dunes and shores are currently giving up material, so the leeward hollows are accumulating it. Unfortunately, one of the major ‘beneficiaries’, for want of a better word, has been the dune slack which carries the boardwalk to the seal viewpoint at Newburgh beach.

The low-level viewpoint lies immediately north-west of some high and open dunes, and following three weeks of relentless and powerful south-easterly winds, those dunes have marched down to meet it. By Wednesday there must have been between upwards of ten tons of sand smothering the viewpoint, and when (or indeed if?!) these winds finally abate, it’ll be a monumental job to get it all cleared.

The Newburgh & Ythan Community Trust, who own and maintain the boardwalk and viewpoint, have our sympathies – we know all too well the difficulties of maintaining infrastructure in the dynamic landscape of South Forvie – and when the time comes, we’ll be there to help out and do our share of the shovelling. With the excesses of the Christmas break not far behind us, I for one could to with the extra exercise!

All the while, the Grey Seals at the adjacent haul-out have appeared not in the least bit perturbed – even if they were beginning to form dunes of their own as the windblown sand accumulated on the leeward side of their bodies.

In another frustrating week of odd-jobbing and catching up on some reading (some of it obligatory, and some of it actually interesting), I was pleased at least to get the ‘new’ windsurfing information sign installed. This is located at the end of Inch Road, Newburgh, a spot which gives a panoramic view of the lower estuary for our regular waterfowl counts, as well as being a popular launch site for watersports enthusiasts. For the Reserve staff, meeting the needs of both wildlife and human visitors on the Reserve is a perennial balancing act; providing information to visitors about responsible access is a key part of this.

The end of Inch Road was formerly a natural island in the estuary, and it has a long history of use and modification by people. The present-day road causeway is man-made, and the former island itself (now the parking area at the end of the road) carries the remains of various stone walls and structures. This means it’s a very difficult place to dig a decent post-hole for a sign, so I was forced to use some of the random bits of masonry littering the shoreline to form a stone ‘cairn’ around the base of the sign, lending it some extra stability. On lifting one particular stone from the top of the shore, a convention of tiny Shore Crabs scattered in all directions – see how many you can spot in the following photo…

I reckon a minimum of 14 – see the photo below. But even then, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d missed one or two!

This was a vivid illustration of the richness of life in the Ythan Estuary. If there were that many Shore Crabs under one rock, how many must there be on the whole estuary? And that’s just one species: what about all the others – the multitude of molluscs, worms, shrimps, fish and so on? The numbers must be almost incomprehensible. Hardly surprising, then, that the estuary is both nationally and internationally important for the birds that feed upon this smorgasbord of life. All that mud, shingle, sand and water, though it may appear to our eyes a barren wasteland, is actually a precious and irreplaceable natural asset.

It’s no bad thing to be reminded every now and then – as if we needed a reminder – what an awesome local patch we have here at Forvie, even in the dull and dank days of winter. It’s a place simply bursting with life – whatever the weather!

January 2026: picture the scene. First there was the snow. Then some more snow on top of that. Then the thaw, and the inevitable flooding. Then the rain, plenty of rain, just to keep things topped up. So, prior to this week, about the only thing we hadn’t yet had was a raging gale. Hold my beer…

Here at Forvie, an onshore gale set in last weekend, and at the time of writing it’s still lashing our eastward-facing coast. Winter storms are, of course, a fact of life here in the North-east, and on the Reserve it’s a case of adjusting our work to fit the prevailing conditions. There are certain tasks that are rendered impracticable, impossible or just plain dangerous in such conditions, but there’s always a list of jobs kept on the proverbial back burner for times like these. Unfortunately, these jobs tend to be piecemeal, mundane and frequently downright dull – not great ingredients for a thrilling read in the end-of-week blog. But please bear with me, and I’ll try and make up the deficit with some photos and video of the dramatic scenes along the coast during this week’s Stormageddon.

Here’s how things looked from a couple of vantage points around Collieston village, just to the north of the Reserve; these short snippets serve to give an indication of the ferocity of both wind and sea throughout much of the past week.

With outdoor activities somewhat restricted this week – and with an attendant risk of cabin fever setting in – I found myself holed up in the workshop for a couple of days, catching up with some maintenance tasks. As I say, this stuff doesn’t exactly make for great copy, but it is nevertheless essential work in the running of the Reserve, and it all contributes to keeping Forvie at its best for both wildlife and visitors.

Note in the photo below the red kneeling mat, kindly provided by former reserve manager Annabel, which is the sole reason that I still have functioning knee joints after nineteen years of servicing machinery on a cold concrete floor in the middle of winter!

One of the ‘cabin’ jobs was to resurrect the windsurfing sign, which had gone missing last year only to turn up in a lay-by on Loch Ness-side. While the story of how it ended up there remains a complete mystery, it was at least returned to us more or less undamaged, and could be re-used. What it lacked was a wooden frame; the special person who removed the sign in the first place had apparently used the previous frame for their camp-fire. Takes all sorts, apparently.

Thankfully this was a straightforward piece of construction (“We’re not cabinet-making here” is my constant refrain to Forvie’s seasonal staff / volunteers / apprentices when approaching a basic joinery task), and the new sign was soon ready to be returned to its rightful place beside the estuary at Inch Road in Newburgh.

With this week’s weather proving trying for us humans, how must it be for Forvie’s wildlife? The simple answer is that some species are far better adapted to deal with storm conditions than others. Our Grey Seals, for instance, are super tough, and are able to take the high winds, high seas and vicious sand-blow in their stride. The most they’ll have to do is to adjust their choice of haul-out site: often in an easterly wind, the seals tend to congregate in the mouth of the Ythan, in the lee of the dunes. In calm conditions or an offshore wind, by contrast, they favour the more open beach on the seaward side of the Forvie peninsula.

While marine mammals make light work of stormy conditions, life must be a good deal harder for some of our terrestrial mammals. Predators such as Foxes and Badgers rely heavily on their sense of smell for navigation and locating food, and detecting any scent is likely to be much more difficult in high winds than in calm weather. Like me in my workshop, they might be just as well to remain indoors, in their earths or setts respectively, and wait for better foraging conditions before venturing out.

Birds are a mixed bag in terms of their reaction to the storm too. Passing by Sand Loch, we noticed a hint of waterfowl movement this week, with a fine drake Goldeneye and several Red-breasted Mergansers dropping in at various points. Both of these species are diving ducks, obtaining their food beneath the choppy surface of the loch, so they’re able to carry on feeding quite happily despite the storm raging above.

It’s a far tougher gig for seabirds though. Even though most of our winter seabirds, such as auks (Guillemots, Razorbills and the like), also dive for food, the sea is a much less hospitable environment than the lochs favoured by the aforementioned ducks. Apart from having to contend with the sheer physical power of the swell, the birds are also faced with churned-up, turbid (cloudy) water, preventing them from seeing their favoured fish prey. The fish themselves, meanwhile may even retreat to the more sheltered depths, out of range of the birds. This all adds up to poor feeding, and if the rough conditions persist for more than a few days, the spectre of starvation looms large.

Shags, of which a tiny handful of pairs breed at Forvie each summer, are particularly susceptible to winter storms. Our friends at the Grampian Ringing Group reckoned that the Shag population in North-east Scotland was reduced by more than 80% following a recent stormy winter; we’ll have to wait until summer to see how they’ve fared this time around.

Speaking of seabirds and fish, we recently found this little fellow washed up on the beach just south of Rockend. I initially took this to be a Sprat, a common ‘bait fish’ in our waters and a favoured food of many seabirds, but a bit of research indicated that it’s more likely a European Anchovy – note the pointed little snout, and the gape of the mouth extending well behind the eye.

Anchovies are known to be present in the northern North Sea in various isolated locations, and are thought to be increasing in both range and numbers as our sea temperatures steadily rise. Who knows, Forvie’s terns may be dining on Anchovies rather than Sand-eels in future seasons!

This is, however, just speculation, and the way a certain species will react to climate change is about as unpredictable as the weather itself. But if current predictions hold true, we’re likely to experience a lot more stormy weather as time goes on.

As I type this the gale is still raging outside, but I can’t bear to be stuck indoors a minute longer. Fetch my boots and coat, I’m away out. See you again next week!

Following Danny’s farewell to Forvie at the end of 2025, the second week of the new year saw the remaining Reserve staff back in the saddle once again. The first half of the week in question was cool rather than cold, with a major thaw having taken place since the last posting on these pages, and the Reserve was unrecognisable from just seven days previously. Even so, a few stubborn patches of snow remained in sheltered spots and shady hollows, prompting one or two local old-timers to suggest that “it’s wytin’ for mair” (=waiting for more). I suppose only time will tell!

On Monday we divided our staff resources (i.e. one of us to each half of the Reserve) in order to carry out a check of all the footpaths and infrastructure following the festive lay-off. While water levels were predictably high following the melting of a foot of snow – never mind the rain we’ve since received – the Heath Trail footpath remains passable even in ordinary footwear. This serves as a vindication for our re-routing of the trail last winter: in stark contrast to the dry ‘new’ route, negotiating the ‘old’ trail this week would have required either chest-waders or a small boat.

The real up side of this is that we can now leave the wetlands on this part of the heath to continue developing naturally, creating lots of habitat for a wide variety of water-loving wildlife. On the Reserve, as in life, we try to avoid fighting against nature as far as we possibly can, preferring instead to work with the natural changes taking place around us. Ultimately, it’s up to us to adapt to our environment, rather than forcing the environment to accommodate us!

While walking the ‘new’ section of Heath Trail past the seaward side of the Coastguard’s Pool, I spied a sorry collection of feathers among the tangled grasses. Closer inspection revealed them to have belonged to a Woodcock, possibly a cold-weather refugee who had fallen foul of some predator or another (and hopefully not just an off-lead dog, but it can and does happen).

Later in the week we saw a live Woodcock near Cotehill Loch, being pursued in flight by three Carrion Crows. One of the crows managed to catch the hapless Woodcock by the foot, at which point we thought ‘game over’, but somehow it wriggled free and the chase continued. As the birds dipped over the horizon, we were left wondering about the final outcome, though we were of course rooting for the Woodcock.

Carrion Crows are generalist predators and scavengers, and aren’t finely tuned for catching and killing smaller birds. Other more specialised predators tend to make a ‘cleaner’ job of it: the powerful talons of a falcon, for example, tend to result in a quick kill, while perhaps the ultimate in ‘humane dispatch’ is a shrike, whose sharp bill delivers a swift and terminal nip to the back of its victim’s neck. Crow predation, however, somehow has an air of gangland violence about it, especially when multiple assailants are involved; as such we were relieved not to witness the probable demise of the poor old Woodcock.

All of this was a vivid demonstration of the vulnerability of slow-flying birds like Woodcock in open environments during daylight, which is precisely where they find themselves when frozen out of their usual woodland haunts by hard weather. This is why they generally operate at night, and spend the daylight hours snuggled down in the leaf litter, relying on their beautiful camouflage for protection from predatory crows and the like.

Contrary to forecast, Tuesday started wet, and continued wetter still. Just what we needed on top of all that snow-melt. What’s more, we had a wretched wader count to do, which always seems to coincide with a downpour and/or a gale.

As so often happens, the rain cleared at the tail-end of the job, leaving an annoyingly beautiful evening following our earlier soaking. C’est la vie!

Our most unusual ‘spot’ during the account was actually a bit of flotsam washed up on the shores of the estuary. In common use worldwide, plastic 45-gallon drums wash up fairly regularly here, and the clean and intact ones can be recycled into useful things like water-butts for the garden. With this in mind, we recovered the drum in question, but noticed that it was lettered with the address of a house… in Malvern, Jamaica! Whether it had floated the 5,000 or so miles across the Atlantic, or been ‘ship-assisted’ in the manner of various American birds to reach western Europe, we’ll never know. While this discovery was handy in giving me an excuse for this week’s title, the only minor disappointment was that it wasn’t full of Caribbean rum!

On Thursday we headed down to the ternery (aaaaaaarrrrrgghhh – surely not that time already?!) to check out the lie of the land following recent high winds, and to case the upcoming strimming job wherein we clear away all the previous season’s dead vegetation. This was a particularly fine afternoon to be out and about, and South Forvie looked splendid in the winter sun.

This was also an opportunity to inspect and maintain the infrastructure in that part of the Reserve, including the seasonal signage pertaining to the Grey Seal haul-out at the Ythan mouth.

The highlight of our trip to the ternery was undoubtedly the little flock of Twite, comprising about 60 individuals (plus a couple of Linnets for company), which were frequenting the vacant Sandwich Tern colony. I’m sure this was nothing to do with the delicious seed bait laid down by Grampian Ringing Group members in an attempt to capture them for an ongoing ringing study! Nothing at all…

In any case, it was a delight to see (and hear) them going about their business. Twite are in my opinion underrated little birds, with subtly attractive plumage and a gentle gregarious nature. Their common name is basically an onomatopoeic rendering of their call, while the specific part of their scientific name Linaria flavirostris literally means ‘yellow-nosed’, a reference to the yellow beak – which also makes for a handy fieldmark to distinguish your Twite from your Linnet.

Thereafter the working week ended with a sharp frost on Friday morning, which persisted through the day. At Waulkmill, miniature ice-floes could be seen making their way serenely down a becalmed River Ythan, while Logie Buchan reedbed looked pretty as a picture under the evening sky.

An agreeable end, then, to a productive week back at work – it was like we’d never been away!

The start of 2026 will long be remembered for the massive dump of snow we had from the 2nd January onwards. The reserve staff haven’t seen this much snow in their time here, and the fluffy, powdery, drifty snow cut off the reserve and village of Collieston from the outside world for several days. Local heroes were those folks with 4x4s that ran to and from shops, keeping the villagers’ kitchens stocked, and local farmer Andy, who bulldozed the road clear to the crossroads. Like many small rural communities, we’re really lucky in the folk around us here at Forvie.

The drifts made walking on the reserve very difficult, but lots of people did go out from the village, to appreciate the beauty of the fresh snowfall. Snow makes the world look pristine and covers up so many of mankind’s scars on the landscape, it’s like seeing the world renewed. Yes, it’s a pain if you want to go anywhere, but at the same time it is also strikingly and undeniably beautiful.

In the event, it was a few days until we could reliably get up and down the short distance between the village and the reserve. Both the track from the village and the road itself were waist deep in snow in places! At the Forvie Centre car park, some impressive cornices had formed where the windblown snow had found its way through gaps in the hedge.

But, immediately after the snow, we had a sudden and rapid – in fact very rapid – thaw. It rained for 14 hours, and much of the snow disappeared overnight. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that the roads were clear now… and so were the shelves in the local supermarket! Big waves replaced the snow as the weather spectacle in our area. Here’s Collieston pier taking a pounding on Wednesday.

Cold and/or stormy weather is bad news for wildlife but, for us, often a chance to see birds that might otherwise be shy and retiring, Hunger makes birds desperate, and they can be incredibly confiding in harsh conditions, giving exciting and rare glimpses of all sorts of wildlife. For instance, fieldfares – so often wild and wary – will take fruit in gardens, throwing their usual caution to the north wind.

Or, in the fields around the reserve, you might see grey partridge, standing out against the snow. Normally, they will huddle down, camouflaged in the stubbles, and you never see them. But, in the snow, you can easily pick out their plump shapes as the try to find bare ground to forage in. We’re very lucky to still be able to see this much-declined species around the reserve and village in good numbers, as they have already disappeared from huge swathes of our countryside, squeezed out by ever-more-intensive and efficient agricultural practices. Spilt grain and weed-rich stubble fields are manna from heaven for partridges, but are becoming harder and harder to find in our modern rural landscapes.

And bird tables may attract unusual visitors, too. This woodpigeon was joining the sparrows and chaffinches for a hand-out of seeds in our back garden in Collieston, just over the fence from the reserve.

if you’re really lucky, you may also bag something more exotic, like a brambling or redwing…a bit of Scandi chic in the snow.

But, ironically, our most exotic ‘sighting’ of the midwinter period wasn’t a bird, but another creature washed up on the beach. Initially reported as a pufferfish, this blue lumpsucker was a new species for us. And it does look exotic, an amazing blueish colour that the camera doesn’t really do justice to. They occur fairly commonly round our coasts but, like so many other marine creatures, they’re just not something you ever see… unless the tides deliver one onto the beach!

After an eventful first week to the year, we do wonder what 2026 might bring! One thing is for sure, our only constant is change – and whatever the year brings, we’re incredibly lucky to have the reserve and its wildlife on our doorstep to give us so much pleasure. We’re not ones for new year’s resolutions, but we can always recommend getting out and about – you never know what you’ll see, and just being in the outdoors is good for the soul.

Just remind me that I said that, when the next lot of weather is landing on our heads!

In the meantime, stay safe and keep warm, and we’ll see you out and about on the reserve as the new year marches on.

Given it’s that time of year, we thought we should perhaps create our own version of a well-known Christmas carol. Feel free to sing along…

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…A partridge in the Ternery

Although the ternery is rightly famous for… well, its terns… another little-known but much-valued resident is the grey partridge. These are a bird we’re lucky still to have in the north-east of Scotland, as they’ve disappeared in a lot of places due to changes in agricultural practices. Turns out, they also seem to like the undisturbed habitat and long marram grass of the ternery area, and we often see at least two different families of chicks that have been hatched there.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Two cushie doos

‘Cushie doo’ is the local Scots term for woodpigeon. In recent years, one or two of the scrubby willow bushes on the reserve have gotten tall enough to support woodpigeons nesting. Well, when we say ‘nesting’ we use the term in the loosest possible sense…woodpigeons are contenders for the ‘Most Rubbish Nest’ award, cobbling together a flimsy platform of sticks that the eggs sometimes fall through. Sheesh.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Three ditching spades

Life’s a ditch. It’s one of those jobs that you’d never notice unless it wasn’t done. Then, quite suddenly, your paths are knee-deep in water. We’re pretty democratic about it…everyone gets their fair share of mud!

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Four fallen trees

We don’t – as we’ve often remarked – have that many trees at Forvie. But the ones at Waterside do occasionally make work for us after a big storm. And we’re always willing to help our sister reserves –  most often at Muir of Dinnet, where more than half the reserve is covered in trees, that do occasionally blow onto paths. We’ll soon have that cleared up, though!

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Five Yoldrins

This one may have actually been the true origin of the ‘five gold rings’ in the Christmas song – which, let’s face it, is the only bit everybody remembers to sing. A ‘yoldrin’ is an old name for a yellowhammer – a familiar and attractive species which breeds here in the gorse along the estuary side.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

….Six-teen hundred terns a-laying

By the time we totted up all the terns nesting in our colony this summer, we had over 1,600 pairs. The scores on the doors were 1,010 pairs of Sandwich terns, 509 of Arctic terns, 112 of Common terns and 9 pairs of Little terns. That’s a lot of eggs, and hopefully a net export of terns to the North Sea. It’s easy to forget, as we watch them fishing in the estuary over the summer, that ‘our’ colony is of both national and international importance.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

….Seven-arm octopus a-swimming

As regular followers of our social media will know, a positive media feeding frenzy resulted when the remains of a deep-sea seven-arm octopus washed up on the beach here. First reported by Paul on local FB pages, the reserve staff and marine biologist Lauren from EGCP collected the pieces a couple of days later. The media interest took us all by surprise, with Catriona and Lauren being interviewed by news outlets worldwide. It was also a reminder to keep your eyes peeled when you’re out and about – you never know what might turn up. Maybe even a mini-kraken from the deep!

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Eight flowers blooming

At this time of year, in the darkest days of winter, it’s easy to forget how colourful Forvie is in spring and summer. If we had to pick the eight flowers the most typical of the reserve they might be, in no particular order: scurvy grass, red campion, primrose, cowslip, wild pansy, bird’s foot trefoil, northern marsh orchid and heather. Yes, there are lots of others… but these are some of the commonest and prettiest.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Nine puddocks hopping

An old boy once said to me ‘Ere’s twa kins o’ puddocks. Ere’s the een ‘at hops an the een ‘at craaawls…’ Which is a nice summary of the different habits of frogs and toads, both of which are common here at Forvie. With its large breeding population of common toads, the Coastguard’s Pool is known a the ‘Frog Pond’ to many of the locals and, on a damp, mild morning in April, you have to do the ‘Dance of the Toad’ to avoid stepping on them beside the Sand Loch as well.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Ten deer a-leaping

Roe deer are common throughout the reserve but are not always seen, generally being fairly shy. They can jump impressively and it’s always a pleasure watching them clearing fences between the reserve and the local fields. Or dashing around in the sand dunes.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Eleven insects dancing

One of the sure signs of spring is when you look out over the loch in the low sun of a morning and can see a cloud of gnats or bibionid flies dancing in the light. We’re often asked about ‘the big black flies’ in late April time, and these are St Mark’s Fly… which emerge around St Mark’s Day (25^th April). These are also food for swallows and house martins, newly returned from Africa.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…Twelve hundred seals a-singing

While our seal numbers can peak at over 3,000 in late February-early March, there’s often just over 1,000 hanging around the Ythan mouth over the winter months. They make a great noise and their  ‘ooOOOoooOOOoo’ noises can carry over a mile with a following wind. From the Newburgh boardwalk and beach you can easily hear them ‘singing’ to each other, with a whole range of noises that gave rise to the old myth of selkie song.

So, there you have it… the Forvie take on a Christmas classic! Hope you have a happy and peaceful festive season, and we look forward to seeing you on the reserve next year.