Despite this past few days having been dry, settled and at times pleasantly sunny and warm, the Reserve is still very much living the legacy of the preceding ten months of rain. Although things are definitely beginning to dry out now, it’ll likely take a long time for water levels to drop back to where they were a year ago. Some of the deeper floods, such as those on the heath of North Forvie, and in the hollows near Rockend, still hold a substantial amount of water, and it’s been interesting to see how Forvie’s wildlife has reacted to this changed environment.

We humans tend to think of flooding as a problem, something to be worked against and engineered into submission. True, for some wildlife, flooding can be pretty disastrous. For burrowing mammals like Moles and Rabbits, the problems are fairly obvious. Likewise for insects that pupate or hibernate underground, or plants whose roots cannot tolerate prolonged immersion.

Or indeed ground-nesting birds. For example, the patch of willow scrub in the photo below usually stands on dry ground. A single Willow Warbler, a songbird which nests on the ground, was singing rather forlornly from this patch when we visited it on Monday. In a dry year this would be an ideal territory, but this year the opportunities for nesting under the trees are somewhat limited to say the least; not an ‘easy sell’ to a potential partner. No wonder he had the trees to himself.

However, for other wildlife, flooding presents a world of opportunities. For aquatic insects such as Pond-skaters, there is suddenly an abundance of habitat away from the usual permanent water-bodies. Such species are quick to take advantage of these new opportunities, and immediately look very much at home. Aquatic plants, from simple algae to more complex vascular plants, also rapidly move in, and before long a wetland food web starts to come together.

The presence of these pioneer species then attract others further up the food chain. The same patch of flooded willows where the optimistic Willow Warbler was singing also played host to breeding Mallards, doubtless attracted by the good feeding and the remote, undisturbed location. At least one brood of ducklings was present this week, unusually attended by a drake rather than the mother duck. Another big advantage for the Mallards in breeding on a temporary pool is that the water doesn’t contain predatory fish – so the ducklings are safe from being swallowed by a hungry Pike, for instance.

Leaving the ephemeral wetland behind, we headed across the dry heath and soon came upon this remarkable pair of wings by the footpath. These are bits of Emperor Moth, a not-uncommon but seldom-seen inhabitant of the heath, and this one had clearly fallen foul of some predator or another.

Not far away, a likely culprit sat up on a dead stem and eyed us beadily. His distinctive appearance – burnished orange breast, white dog-collar and black cap and bib – immediately identified him as a male Stonechat, a specialist insect-eater. As if to confirm our suspicions, he dashed after another passing moth, which managed to evade him in a series of wild, looping manoeuvres. But I reckon that’s pretty incriminating evidence: surely this is the villain who did for the Emperor. Still, a Stonechat has to eat after all!

It was a very happy coincidence, then, that during the same week we trapped an Emperor Moth – alive and well this time – in our moth trap on the north-eastern edge of the Reserve at Collieston. Whereas the wings of the predated moth had been from a male – easily told by the gingery ground colour – the one in our trap was a female, larger and more silvery-coloured, but still with those incredible false eyes. While Emperor Moths are relatively common at Forvie, with their larvae feeding on the abundant heathers and shrubs, to see one as well as this is a rare treat indeed. So after a photo-call, and having even been ‘twitched’ by one of our neighbours, it was released unharmed to get on with its life.

The same trapping session also produced this rather lovely Marbled Coronet, whose elaborate name is well-matched to its exquisite markings. This was a bit of a surprise to us; this species tends to be associated with calcareous (lime-rich) habitats, whereas most of Forvie is composed of distinctly acidic soils. Despite this, these moths can make a living here due to their predilection for Sea Campion, which grows abundantly on Forvie’s cliffs.

While an increasing number and variety of moths and butterflies are on the wing in May, others are still at the larval stage at this point in the year. This magnificent Northern Eggar moth caterpillar was discovered alongside one of the footpaths in the week, and in their final instar (i.e. the stage immediately before they pupate), these are among the largest caterpillars you’re likely to encounter here.

Down on the estuary and beach, other wanderers were very much in evidence this week. An abundance of small wading-birds could be seen busily feeding across the mussel-beds and mudflats, and in-between-times, little gangs of them could be found roosting and recovering their strength for the next phase of their spring migration. This need for food and rest is hardly surprising, for despite their small size and unassuming looks, these are long-haul travellers. Most of these little waders will be en-route to the Arctic Circle for the forthcoming summer, a brief and bounteous time of plenty – but they must work hard to even get there in the first place. This means that places like Forvie are critically important service-stations for them on their long journeys.

Dunlin and Ringed Plover are typically the most abundant of the passage waders, with Sanderling in third place. Among these, smaller numbers of other species such as Turnstones can be found, resplendent in their summer plumage of black, white and brick-red. These look a different beast altogether to the dowdy-plumaged ones that we see on our midwinter wader counts on the estuary.

For the keen naturalist, sifting through the rapidly-moving flocks of waders can be a rewarding exercise, as scarce and rare species sometimes hide out among their commoner cousins. Sure enough, this week brought sightings of Little Stint and Curlew Sandpiper among the Dunlin, while your author also got lucky in finding a Pectoral Sandpiper, a vagrant wader all the way from North America. This was loosely associating with a small gang of Knot and Turnstone out on the mussel-beds. Cue one of those dreadful spot-the-rare-bird-at-1000-yards photographs – sorry folks.

One last piece of bird news this week concerns our Black-headed Gulls. At the time of writing, we are just about to embark upon the annual nest census of the gull colony – a marathon piece of work that we’ll all be grateful to get done and dusted. Hopefully we will have some positive results upon which to report in due course.

Wish us luck for the count, and we’ll hope for a dry and warm day to help us out. Watch this space, and we’ll report back – by which time another mad May week will have been and gone. Keep up!

In this job, there are few weeks that go by without someone or another lecturing us on how lucky we are. Some folk say they’d give their eye teeth for a job like mine; others are incredulous that we should actually get paid for it at all: surely the pleasure and privilege of working in a location like this are payment enough? (Try telling that to the mortgage firm or the electricity company though.) Looking in from the outside gives people an interesting and perhaps slightly rosy-tinted view of the job, and they maybe don’t consider the unglamorous side of things, like emptying the dog poo bin or unblocking the public toilets (both duties we’ve had to perform in the last few days).

But for all the popular misconceptions, this past week has been one in which working has indeed been a real pleasure – notwithstanding the odd blocked toilet. A fine May morning out on the east coast, with wild flowers and seabirds and sunshine, is hard to beat. These are the moments that inspire the ‘best job in the world’ narrative.

We’re now into that part of the season wherein the Reserve’s population of Eider ducks is censused on a weekly basis, in order to ascertain the potential number of breeders. As well as the estuary, with its obvious concentration of birds, the census also takes in the rocky coastline from Collieston to Rockend, where a few pairs of Eiders breed each year. This is one of the more pleasant jobs on the roster, and as well as taking in the sights and sounds of the seabirds, it also allows for a bit of casual botanising as well. And now is the time that the plants of the coastal strip are beginning to look their best.

In botany, there are three broad categories into which plants fall, according to their life strategy. These are known by the following terms…

• Ruderals – quick to colonise new ground, quick to grow, quick to set seed; live fast and die young; what gardeners would refer to as ‘weeds’.
• Competitors – obvious really: their strategy is to out-compete everything else; these tend to be long-lived; think trees and vigorous perennials.
• Stress-tolerators – these find a niche in places that other plants can’t survive, by being able to tolerate stressors such as drought, salt, cold, heat or nutrient-deficiency.

Thrift, a common plant on Forvie’s cliffs, unequivocally falls into the latter category. This little plant is a real specialist in the salty coastal environment, able to tolerate the harsh conditions with ease. It can sometimes be found growing in seemingly-impossible situations, clinging to tiny ledges and cracks in the living rock, eking out an existence from nothing more than stone and fresh air. A stress-tolerator indeed, and a true champion.

Red Campion, by contrast, is more of a generalist. It grows quite happily on the clifftops, but can also be found in gardens, waysides and woodland edges. It’s quick to take advantage of new opportunities such as landslips and disturbed ground, but it also grows vigorously and competes strongly, so it has both ruderal and competitor characteristics. This is an easy wild flower to grow in your garden, and as well as being attractive to look at, it’s also very popular with pollinating insects.

The short grass sward of the clifftops is also home to a colourful array of low-growing wildflowers, keeping their heads down out of the salt wind. Violets can be found throughout the Reserve and are at their best about now. There are several similar species that are tricky to identify from one another, and I don’t mind admitting defeat in leaving this one labelled as ‘Viola sp.’ – shame on me!

This next species is a bit easier to recognise. Most folk will be familiar with the delicate pale yellow colour and exquisite form of the wild Primrose, and this is the ancestor of all the gaily-coloured domesticated versions that you see for sale in every garden centre throughout the land. But for my money at least, you can’t improve upon the original version.

Closely related to the Primrose, and bearing quite an obvious family resemblance, is the Cowslip. These are quite common on Forvie’s cliffs between Collieston and Hackley Bay, where they share turf with their Primrose cousins. They’re easily recognised by their deep egg-yolk-yellow colouration and their distinctive form, with small flowers borne in clusters at the top of a single stem.

In fact, Primroses and Cowslips are so closely related that they readily hybridise. The resultant offspring are known as False Oxlips, and in terms of both form and colour, they are a halfway house between the two parent species. Again, they are common along the northernmost of Forvie’s cliffs, and can be seen growing alongside both of the ‘pure’ parent plants.

At Hackley Bay there is a slight change of soil chemistry from the coast on either side, and certain plants can consequently be found here despite being absent from the rest of the Reserve. The prolific and distinctive white blooms of Meadow Saxifrage are a good example, occurring only on the stack at the south end of the bay, with the odd plant also appearing on the neighbouring coast path. Early May is when these attractive flowers are at their peak.

Across the wider Reserve, many other plants are also springing into life now. Across the heath, the fuzzy bright-yellow catkins of Creeping Willow are in evidence, and these serve as a reminder that you’re walking through woodland here. True, it’s not a woodland of mighty oaks or majestic granny pines, but this is a woodland that befits our harsh, salty climate and nutrient-poor ground conditions. Going back once again to our plant categories, Creeping Willow has elements of both the competitor and the stress-tolerator in its makeup.

Likewise the Gorse along the estuary-side footpath, which is positively glowing with flowers just now. This shrub is a ferocious competitor for sure, but it’s also a very effective tolerator of stress, being able to thrive in dry, nutrient-poor soil conditions. Being a member of the pea family, Gorse is able to ‘fix’ nitrogen from the atmosphere, allowing it a crucial advantage in places that are deficient in soil nitrogen. In addition, its wickedly sharp spines are a defence against grazing and browsing animals – again, a stress-tolerant adaptation. Like it or loathe it, Gorse is a plant that is good at what it does.

This sudden bonanza of nectar and pollen finds a great deal of favour with flying insects. We reported recently upon the upturn in bumblebee numbers, especially ‘BLTs’ (Bombus lucorum / terrestris = White-tailed / Buff-tailed Bumblebees). BLTs are our ‘stock’ bumblebees here, but they’re by no means the only species to be found at Forvie. This week they’ve been joined in good numbers by Early Bumblebees and Common Carders; the latter can be easily recognised by their golden teddy-bear-like appearance.

The other insect to make a big comeback this week is the Garden Tiger moth caterpillar. We’re now getting to the phase of the year where these are abundant throughout the Reserve, from the grassland in the north right down to the ternery in the south. Again, this is an easy insect to recognise, with its black, silver and orange livery and its distinctively hairy appearance.

Hairy caterpillars, including those of the Garden Tiger, are hairy chiefly as a defence against predators: after all, who wants to swallow an oversize bottle-brush? This works well against most predators, such as small passerine birds that might like an insect or two for lunch. The one exception to this rule, however, is the Cuckoo.

Far from being put off by the potential for a mouthful of bristles, Cuckoos actually specialise in scoffing hairy caterpillars, and the large numbers of Garden Tiger caterpillars here at Forvie represent a Cuckoo banquet. Added to this, there are plenty of Meadow Pipits to act as foster-parents for Cuckoo chicks – so it’s no surprise that the last few springs have seen at least one Cuckoo holding territory on the Reserve. Sure enough, this week we welcomed our first one back from his winter travels in Africa, and his repetitive refrain could be heard for miles across the heath.

So a full-on May week comes to an end, and at this fast-paced time of the year we wonder what the next few days might bring. At the time of writing, the weather charts look promising for a fresh arrival of migrant birds from the east – maybe. But if we do get lucky, and the Reserve does turn up that elusive Bluethroat, I might be forced to concede that this is indeed the best job in the world.

In what seemed like some sort of divine pardon, the changeover-week from April into May finally delivered to Forvie a series of days that actually felt like spring. In fact, the working week dealt us just one soaking that required a complete change of clothes (on Wednesday morning), as opposed to the usual three or four (or more) to which we’ve become accustomed. Further to this, we probably also saw more of the sky than at any other time in the last six months. And there were several mornings where being up and about early was a real pleasure, rather than a battle of wits against weather. Hallelujah!

The wildlife very much responded in kind to the improved conditions, and this was a week of arrivals. Down on the estuary, we finally welcomed our first Little Terns of the year, back for their breeding season at last. Their arrival date of 3rd May is the latest ever in the eighteen springs that your author has worked on the Reserve. But for a species on the proverbial knife edge, it’s emphatically a case of ‘better late than never’.

Nearby within the electric-fenced enclosure, the Sandwich Tern colony at last begun to look and sound the part. Towards the end of the week upwards of 300 birds were present on the colony, and the sharp-eyed Catriona spied one that looked to be sitting particularly comfortably – see the foreground of the photo below. When a tern or gull is snuggled right down, with the wingtips and tail pointing obliquely upwards, it’s often a good sign that they’re about to start laying, or are already sitting on eggs.

Sure enough, a quick dash in and out of the colony confirmed the suspicion that laying had commenced. Ascertaining the date when each species starts laying is critically important for us in monitoring Forvie’s breeding terns and gulls: this allows us to plan ahead for the nest census work that will ultimately tell us how many breeding pairs of each species we have.

Essentially, for each species, we take the first laying date and add the average incubation period, to give us a projected hatching date. In the case of Sandwich Tern this year, this works out as 2nd May + 25 days = 27th May. At the point the first chicks are due to hatch, the number of nests in the colony containing eggs is at its highest (and, importantly, there aren’t chicks running around under your feet risking getting trodden on). This, therefore, is the key time to carry out the nest census. So, 27th May it is then – I’ll go fetch the diary.

The upturn in the weather this week was allied to an easterly wind blowing from continental Europe. And as any regular reader of the Forvie blog will already know, in spring and autumn an easterly wind means one thing – time to fetch your optics and get out birding! Sure enough, from mid-week onwards we enjoyed a decent arrival of migrant songbirds of various species.

Among these were a couple of real gems. In Europe there are few finer sights in the natural world than a male Redstart in breeding plumage. An explosion of fiery orange, slate blue, jet black and shining white – all packed into a slender, Robin-sized package – these birds are real showstoppers. Catriona was lucky enough to find this one just on the boundary between the Reserve and the village of Collieston.

Redstarts are scarce passage migrants here at Forvie, and on average we maybe only see them on two or three occasions each year. Most of these are in immature or ‘female-type’ plumage, lacking most of the bright colours; breeding-plumage males are very much in the minority. And of those that do occur, most are very shy and restless, and don’t often permit good views. So, a confiding and showy male Redstart in breeding plumage is a very rare beast indeed. We may never see a better one than this!

In terms of scarcity value, however, the Redstart was upstaged by a Wood Warbler in your author’s garden, which later wandered down to the Reserve boundary at Sand Loch. Aesthetically speaking, this is another crowd-pleaser, a tiny gem decked out in a bright lemon-and-lime colour scheme. As well as looking gorgeous, it also constituted the first record of the species for our garden, which is always a bonus. Trouble is, I was absent at the time on the Isle of May, helping out with the Puffin population census – typical! Luckily though, Catriona captured some lovely photos of it, with which to torture me later on.

The last Wood Warbler we recorded at Forvie was in 2015, so I may have to wait some years before the next opportunity to see one here! Ah well, thus is life…

As well as the transient birds-of-passage such as those described above, the week’s new arrivals also included those who will remain at Forvie and set up home for the summer. As of Thursday, the bushes around Sand Loch once again resonated to the excitable, stream-of-consciousness babble of Sedge Warblers setting up their summer territories.

We also received a notable influx of Willow Warblers, and although these have been present in small numbers for a couple of weeks now, this last few days is the first time they have seemed really numerous. Their sweet, melodic song can now be heard almost anywhere on the Reserve where there are trees or scrub. It’s a fairly easy song to recognise with a bit of practice – and once memorised, you too can wow your friends with your ornithological prowess. Well, maybe…

There were new arrivals this week in the insect world too. Fine weather on Thursday saw a flurry of white butterflies around the Reserve, but with a stiff breeze blowing, many of them were too quick and elusive to be identified to species. Possibly some of the ones around the fringes of the Reserve at Collieston may have been Small Whites, but those we did catch up with in the Waterside area were undoubtedly Green-veined Whites. These are abundant throughout the wetter areas of the Reserve in spring and summer where their larval foodplant, Cuckoo-flower, is also now starting to appear.

Other butterflies have also been in evidence this week, with the Vanessids well-represented. This family of butterflies includes colourful and familiar species like Small Tortoiseshell and Peacock, both of which have been seen on the wing in recent days, as well as Red Admiral, which first put in its first appearance of the year on Thursday.

After a day filling your proverbial boots full of newly-emerged butterflies and a smorgasbord of Continental songbirds, what better way to finish up than with a stonking sunset? The week even produced a couple of those too.

So although we’ve had to wait until the month of May for the spring to properly arrive, the last few days have helped to make up for lost time. This week’s wildlife has been well worth the wait. More of the same next week please!

Though it may seem a bit ironic coming off the back of ten months of rain, a hot topic on Scotland’s National Nature Reserves just now – quite literally – is wildfire. Our changing climate is delivering consistently higher temperatures than the long-term average, while erratic weather patterns are increasing the frequency of both flood and drought. And while the last ten months here in the North-east has been relentlessly wet, there have been other times in the past few years when things have been desperately dry, and this is when the spectre of wildfire looms large for those of us who work on the land.

Perhaps surprisingly, spring is the time of year when the vegetation is naturally at its driest. Most plants are dormant over the winter, and at this stage of the year they haven’t yet ‘greened up’ and become lush with new growth and moisture-rich sap. As a result, they can desiccate quickly when the sun comes out, especially when this is accompanied by a drying wind. Fine-stemmed plants such as heathers and grasses desiccate especially rapidly in such conditions, and just an hour’s drying time can make them quite flammable. This is always in the backs of our minds here on fine, hot days in spring – not that we’ve had too many of those so far this year of course.

Of course, we hope upon hope that a wildfire situation never arises at Forvie, but in reality it’s far from impossible. Almost all wildfires in Scotland are started by people, rather than natural forces such as lightning, and more often than not they are started accidentally. This may be something as simple as a carelessly-dropped cigarette end or an ill-advised campfire. Thankfully, the majority of our visitors at Forvie tend to be sensible and thoughtful, but we’d advise anyone visiting or camping in the countryside – whether here or elsewhere – to take extreme care to prevent wildfires, and never to light fires in places such as heathland, grassland or dunes. Just think before you strike that match!

In recent years we’ve had one or two incidents of inappropriate fires at Forvie – usually at the top of a beach, dangerously close to the dunes. The one in the photo below is a case in point: a large fire was lit on the beach and then left unattended, during drought conditions, with an onshore wind. The consequences of the fire having reached the dry grass nearby would have been catastrophic, with the nearest ‘firebreak’ in the direction of travel being the A975 coast road over a mile away. Mercifully we were lucky on this occasion, but this may not always be the case.

With all this in mind, our managers at NatureScot last week teamed up with the Fire & Rescue Services of both Scotland and Northumberland to deliver a two-day course for Reserve and Operations staff on how to deal with a wildfire incident. This involved a day at our headquarters in Inverness, where Bruce and Ian from Northumberland FRS imparted their impressive experience on the subject. The following day was hosted by our colleagues at Creag Meagaidh NNR, and involved a mixture of classroom-based (well, workshop-based) sessions as well as some hands-on exercises with some fire-suppression kit. As we’ve often remarked, you never stop learning in this job.

In fact, a lot of the course content was reassuringly familiar. A couple of us here on the Forvie staff are previously trained and experienced at carrying out prescribed burning on our sister reserve at Muir of Dinnet NNR. This involves the use of a controlled burn to manage vegetation on the heath, removing rank heather and grass, and promoting the growth of other dwarf shrubs such as Bearberry. Used sparingly and carefully, this can be a useful land management tool, while the equipment and experience can also be applied in a wildfire situation. Here’s hoping we don’t ever need to do so.

As well as the excellent course tutors and content, the highlights of the two days also included the chance to catch up with colleagues from distant Reserves, as well as to take in the sights and sounds of the magnificent Creag Meagaidh NNR. I am forced to admit that as landlocked places go, it is rather lovely.

By Thursday we were back on the ranch at Forvie, and undertook our first breeding-season Eider census of 2024. These counts will be carried out weekly from now until early June, with the aim of estimating the potential breeding population of Eiders. The word ‘potential’ is used advisedly here, since not all Eiders choose to breed in any given year; in some years many of them ‘opt out’ for whatever reason. This week’s count revealed around 270 birds on the estuary, a low number for this stage of the year – though this may be due to the continuing cold spring, which appears to be making everything happen later than usual.

A handful of interlopers were also recorded during the count, including a puckle of Long-tailed Ducks in their highly-variable harlequin plumage, and a slightly-lost-looking Common Scoter. The latter species is more usually seen in flocks offshore, and to see one in the estuary is relatively unusual. But it may be that this bird was breaking its journey en-route to the Flow Country in the far north of Scotland, where a few pairs breed in the peatland pools.

We were also pleased to note a handful of freshly-arrived Common and Arctic Terns, hopefully the first of many to settle and breed in South Forvie in the coming weeks. This allowed us to sharpen up our identification skills, having not seen either of these species since last autumn. Common and Arctic Terns are a classic ‘species-pair’, very similar in appearance, voice and habits, and they’re not always easy to separate from one another in the field. Have a quick game of ‘spot the difference’ with the following two photos, and see if you can sort them out. (Tip: compare the extent of the dark wingtips, the translucence of the flight feathers, and the proportions of wing / tail / head / bill. Easy, huh?)

Sadly, the fine spells of sunshine that we enjoyed for a short while weren’t to last, and by Friday I found myself attempting to mow the very shaggy lawn outside the Forvie Centre in the rain. Earlier the same day we’d had a couple of heavy hail showers; these are a bit less annoying than rain showers, because the hail at least bounces off, rather than soaking you to the undercarriage. But for a brief period everything was covered in those little white polystyrene-looking balls of ice.

For most right-thinking creatures, getting showered by lumps of ice is more or less guaranteed to banish any amorous thoughts. This was largely true for Forvie’s Black-headed Gulls, most of whom were either hunkered down against the onslaught on their colony, or sulking on the shores of the nearby estuary in protest. The cold spring has certainly resulted in a slow start to their breeding season this year.

Despite all this, the first eggs appeared in the colony this week – fully three weeks later than in some previous years. Hopefully these are the first of many hundreds – or indeed thousands – yet to come.

In a year where it’s felt like spring has never really arrived, this milestone in the season was met with some relief on the part of the Reserve staff. At last, some cause for optimism – notwithstanding the odd hailstorm in the meantime. Onwards and upwards.

So that’s another week of spring 2024 done, and once again we’ve found ourselves beset by single-digit temperatures, high winds and – quelle surprise – yet more rain. On the Reserve, nature is in something of a confused state: the lengthening hours of daylight are telling our wildlife to grow / flower / breed / migrate (delete as appropriate), and at the same time the dreich and wintry weather conditions are having the opposite effect. Certainly the conditions on the ground have felt more like late November than late April.

All the while, the Forvie staff have been encouraging one another (and moreover trying to convince themselves) that at some point this weather pattern must surely change, and that better times lie ahead of us. Hold on to that feeling.

To be fair, the week wasn’t end-to-end bad. Last weekend, Danny teamed up with new weekend warden Joe to put on a Seal Watch event on Newburgh beach. Tooled up with telescopes, a life-size plywood seal, two plywood Eiders and plenty of banter, Danny and Joe spoke to upwards of 150 folk during the event, helping to spread the good word about Forvie and its wildlife. Incredibly, as evidenced by the photo below, the sun even shone for them for a short while; they probably ought to have each bought a scratchcard that evening.

The ever-impressive spectacle of the Grey Seal haul-out wasn’t the only point of wildlife interest on the estuary though. This week saw Forvie’s first Osprey of 2024, with one or more birds trying their luck at catching a fish (usually an unfortunate Flounder) in the tidal waters. Many people still think you need to go to Strathspey or Perthshire to see an Osprey, but these days our very own Ythan Estuary is as good a place as any to see one of these spectacular raptors in action.

Nearby, an unusually-small-looking Curlew actually turned out to be the first Whimbrel of the year. Like the Osprey, these are summer visitors to the British Isles, but with an even more restricted breeding range. Whimbrel nest only sporadically on the Scottish mainland, with most of the small breeding population occurring on the Northern and Western Isles. Here at Forvie, we also play host to Whimbrel bound for Scandinavia for the summer, feeding up on the Ythan Estuary before making the jump across the North Sea. These Continental migrants far outnumber the Scottish breeders, and probably account for the vast majority of Whimbrel that we see on spring and autumn migration here in the north-east.

Danny, in fact, had a busy week on the Reserve. As well as running the Seal Watch event, and attending to the daily duties of maintaining the ternery electric fence and engaging with visitors, he also found the time to check and repair Forvie’s mink rafts. These are floating platforms fitted with clay pads for recording mammal footprints, and are an important means of monitoring for the presence of American Mink on our waterways – an invasive species and a voracious predator of small mammals, birds and their young.

Thankfully Danny didn’t find any traces of American Mink, but he did discover a likely clue as to why. It seems that our mink rafts are popular resting-places for Otters; the wooden canopy of the raft makes an excellent place to leave a deposit of spraint in order to mark their respective territories. Now Otters aren’t at all fond of American Mink, and will drive the latter out of their territory, thereby doing the rest of the ecosystem a favour, and saving us a job in the process. It’s ample recompense for having our mink rafts used as Otter toilets – though rubber gloves are a must for staff checking and repairing the rafts!

The weekend wardens also successfully reinstated Larry the Labrador at the end of Waterside Wood, following the completion of his rehab at the workshop. While having to repair deliberate damage is always irritating to say the least, there’s actually something quite therapeutic and relaxing about settling down in the workshop to do some old-school freehand signwriting. Or maybe it’s just the smell of the paint.

In spite of the perpetual cold and wet, some of Forvie’s wild flowers are gamely pressing on regardless. Down in the southern dunes, the strange leafless flowers of Colt’s-foot have begun to appear in the past few days; the leaves will follow later in the season.

A very welcome sight has been that of the first Wild Pansy flowers of the year. Their cute and cheerful little countenances will brighten the dune-slacks and waysides for the next few months, in a varied colour-scheme of blues, purples, whites and yellows.

The early wildflowers are very much appreciated by any insects already on the wing, and this week has been the first time that bumblebees have been really plentiful. Most of these have been Buff-tailed or White-tailed Bumblebees, and this closely-related species-pair aren’t always readily identifiable in the field. Consequently they go by the naturalist’s affectionate acronym of ‘BLT’, derived from their respective scientific names – Bombus lucorum / terrestris.

Also of note in the insect department this week, the ever-sharp-eyed Catriona spotted this rather magnificent caterpillar at large on one of the footpaths across the heath. The black-and-white ‘punk hairdo’ identifies this beast as the larva of the Dark Tussock moth, and perhaps slightly recalls Chris Packham in his Really Wild Show days.

As well as wildflowers emerging, the Reserve’s trees are also gradually and reluctantly waking up. The first few tender leaves are beginning to emerge from their buds on the various Willow species across the Reserve.

The new growth of leaves, and the corresponding emergence of small invertebrates, is perfectly timed for the arrival of insectivorous birds on their spring migration. This week Forvie recorded its first Willow Warblers of 2024, restlessly gleaning insects from the fine twigs, and occasionally – and delightfully – indulging in a bit of singing practice en-route. There are few sweeter sounds in the northern summer than the song of the Willow Warbler – a lilting, descending cascade of softly-exquisite notes.

Another northbound migrant, and another fine singer, is the Blackcap. In the time it’s taken me to write this piece, we’ve seen our first one of the year pass through the garden here. It’s always enjoyable to renew your acquaintance with a species you haven’t seen for several months, whether it be a migrant bird, a seasonal insect or a flowering plant.

Lastly, it’s with some relief that we noted the Black-headed Gulls back on their breeding colony towards the end of the week. Earlier they had abandoned the colony altogether, presumably in a fit of pique about the cold and wet conditions with which they were faced (can’t actually say I blame them). Now they’re back in-situ, we’re hoping they’ll stay put and start to get on with the breeding season in earnest.

As conservationists, we often find ourselves trusting to hope. For this next few months, we hope for success for our breeding wildlife, and not a repeat of last year’s avian ‘flu disaster. We hope everyone who visits the Reserve treats it with respect, and enjoys it with consideration. And we hope, after the dismal spring we’ve endured, to be dealt a fine summer…well, you never know!

Is all this too much to hope for? I hope to think not. Don’t stop believing.

One of the themes of 2024 so far, apart from the endless rain and gales, has been the extraordinarily big tides we’ve been receiving along our coast and estuary. Speaking to folk on the Reserve, including long-term residents from our local communities of Collieston and Newburgh, reveals a common consensus: nobody can recall a period of unusually high tides such as this. So, as the great meteorologist and marine scientist Marvin Gaye once famously said, what’s going on?

There are many factors that affect tide heights and timings; some of these are regular and predictable, and some rather more random. It’s fairly common knowledge that the tides are essentially controlled by the position of the moon relative to the earth and sun, whose magnetic fields push and pull the water. This is the predictable bit: the monthly lunar cycle produces a corresponding tidal cycle of spring and neap tides.

Spring tides occur when the moon is either full or new. The alignment of sun, moon and earth causes a strong gravitational pull, leading to a large tidal movement – basically, high tides are very high, and low tides very low. The term ‘spring’, therefore, relates not to the season of the year, but to the water extending and contracting like a coiled spring. Thus you can get spring tides in every month of the year!

Neap tides occur when the moon is halfway through the cycle from new to full and vice versa. Because the moon and sun are at ninety degrees from each other relative to the earth, the gravitational pull is weak. Consequently the high tides are not especially high, and the lows not very low. There is much less difference between high and low tide levels during neaps than there is during springs. Savvy?

Yes Daryl, we kinda know most of this already, I hear you say. What about the unpredictable stuff?

Here goes then. Firstly, atmospheric pressure has a big effect upon tide heights. High pressure – which often manifests itself in fine, settled, calm days with clear skies or high cloud – causes reduced tide heights. Put simply, the pressure of the air above presses the water down, reducing its height upon the shore. Conversely, low pressure – usually associated with wet, windy and at times stormy weather – allows tide heights to rise higher than normal, as there is less downward pressure acting upon the water.

Atmospheric pressure tends to be measured in millibars, and anyone who has ever watched a TV weather forecast will have seen the charts with their pressure systems all labelled with these magic numbers. Each millibar of change, either plus or minus, can lead to a sea level change of up to 1 cm. Average atmospheric pressure is about 1013 mb, but a deep low pressure system associated with a storm can get down to 960 mb or less. This equates to a rise in tide height of over 50cm from the average!

Then, of course, there’s Forvie’s ever-present old friend: the wind. An onshore wind – in our case, anything from a south-south-easterly to north-easterly – has the effect of piling up the water on the shore. The stronger the wind, and the more prolonged the blow, the greater the effect. This leads to higher-than-predicted tides, especially when combined with a low atmospheric pressure; this combination is often referred to as a ‘storm surge’.

Here at Forvie, such conditions can back the water up in the Ythan Estuary, preventing it from flowing out to sea. On days like these, we appear to have an all-day high tide, as the water simply doesn’t get the chance to recede before the tide starts to rise again. In extreme cases, such as we’ve seen in this last few months, the island of Inch Geck in the upper estuary can disappear completely; such a change to the familiar landscape can be quite disconcerting.

OK, it appears that the weather has a big effect on the tides, but can this fully explain what we’ve been seeing lately? We’ve certainly had more than our share of low atmospheric pressure (i.e. rubbish weather) this past few months. The high rainfall will undoubtedly have boosted the water levels in the upper estuary too, perhaps contributing to the disappearing-island phenomenon. But is there any long-term change happening, to back up the locals’ assertions that they’ve never seen anything like it?

Long-term data from monitoring stations around the UK coastline generally show an increase in mean sea levels over the past 150 years. The graph for Aberdeen, our nearest station, looks a bit like this:

Sea level rise can be caused by a number of factors, including the melting of sea-ice around the poles, thermal expansion of water due to climate warming, and isostatic adjustment of the land. The latter is an interesting one: it’s thought that up to now, Aberdeenshire has been gradually rising. This is the long and slow process of the land literally ‘bouncing back’ from the last Ice Age, when the sheer weight of ice on the land caused the earth’s crust to sink relative to sea level. However, are we now reaching the point where actual sea level rise is outpacing isostatic rebound? Probably beyond my qualifications as a nature-reserve dogsbody to comment: you’ll need to ask a ‘proper’ scientist. Food for thought though.

Anyway, if there is indeed a long-term change in sea level occurring, how is this likely to affect the Reserve?

In our day-to-day work, the extra high tides have made life a bit tricky at times. Massive amounts of erosion have occurred along the beach and estuary, and everywhere you go there are great rafts of debris washed up – a tangle of Marram Grass roots, driftwood, marine litter, the occasional dead whale, and other delights. Not only does this make accessing the beach in the pickup truck rather ‘interesting’, but it also plays havoc with the on-site infrastructure. For instance, the beach barrier fence that our team worked so hard to put up last week lasted just four days before being demolished by Storm Kathleen and her associated mega tides.

So on Monday morning – in another low-pressure system, needless to say – Catriona and I had to go back and do it all again. This is a delightful job to do in a downpour, as the wet sand sticks to absolutely everything, and we ended up taking a fair bit of beach home with us in the truck.

Then yet more windy weather and high tides meant it needed another rebuild by Friday – though a much lighter one this time around. And at least this time I had a nice day for it, for a change.

Anyway, as we’ve said before, it’s up to us as Reserve staff to roll with whatever changes the elements throw at us. We’ll manage just fine – but what about some of the Reserve’s wildlife?

Nature, of course, is supremely adaptable given the chance. With Forvie being a famously dynamic environment, much of our wildlife is well-placed to deal with any changes to the coastline brought about by differences in climate and sea conditions – within reason. One of the concerns with anthropogenic climate change (with its knock-on effects upon sea level and weather patterns) is the fast pace of change. Thus species that have a relatively tentative foothold may struggle to adapt quickly enough to keep up.

Species living ‘on the edge’, so to speak, include plants of the foreshore such as the rare and beautiful Oysterplant, and shore-nesting birds like Ringed Plovers and Oystercatchers. With the upper foreshore becoming flooded by massive tides on an increasingly regular basis, what does the future hold for these species at Forvie and beyond?

Meanwhile, the Ythan Estuary itself is an internationally important site for numerous species, including various wading-birds that depend on the inter-tidal mudflats for feeding and roosting. Any reduction in the availability of such habitat due to sea level change is likely to affect them too.

In summary, with regards to the recent mega-high tides, it’s difficult to sort out the ‘noise’ (i.e all the regular and weather-related tidal fluctuations) from any longer-term trends. Has this past few months been a freakish set of anomalies, or an indication of genuine long-term change? I suppose only time will tell.

So, what’s in store for this place in the future? Who knows; Forvie’s dynamic landscape and seascape are showing no signs of slowing down. But I’d advise you to bring your wellies just in case.

We’re now approaching the midway point of spring 2024, and up to this point it’s fair to say that it has flattered to deceive. The season so far at Forvie has been characterised by a seemingly endless series of dreich, cold and wet days, and in this respect the spring has followed on seamlessly from the preceding winter – which in turn followed on seamlessly from the preceding autumn, and so on. We’re now into our ninth straight month of overcast and rainy conditions, and I think all of us – people and wildlife alike – are hoping for a change.

Although it doesn’t feel remotely spring-like out there, the duties of the season remain to be done, albeit while wearing full winter togs and waterproofs. The beginning of April marks another major milestone in Forvie’s year: this is when the barrier fence goes up, thereby closing South Forvie to the public for the duration of the bird breeding season. Unsurprisingly we had a couple of suitably dismal, cold and wet days for the job, and as such we were extra grateful to our ever-dependable volunteers, who braved the elements to help us out.

Of course, in a place like Forvie even the greyest of days will still offer something in the way of interest. The team working on the estuary foreshore, putting up the western end of the barrier fence, enjoyed the close company of a little gang of wading-birds feeding busily on the mud and sand alongside them. As the team quietly worked away, the birds – a mix of Sanderling and Ringed Plover – fed unconcernedly within a few feet, allowing for some lovely close-up views. This was a great example of the benefits of the ‘let the wildlife come to you’ approach. Shame the light wasn’t a bit better for photographs though!

Of course, the entire raison d’etre for the barrier fence is to protect Forvie’s huge colony of terns, gulls and Eiders from disturbance during the crucial months of their breeding season. All of these are ground-nesters, and as such they are very vulnerable to disturbance by human visitors (and especially dogs); many of these species have also undergone alarming declines in the wider country, and now need all the help they can get. The barrier fence helps us to maintain a disturbance-free sanctuary area where they can all nest in peace, giving them the best possible chance of success in a rapidly changing world.

The sanctuary area relies heavily upon the goodwill and respect of Forvie’s visitors. The barrier fence basically consists of half a mile of string suspended on some old drain pipes and scaffolding poles pushed into the sand; it’s not a barrier that’s going to physically keep anyone or anything out. But it does act as a visible, and literal, ‘line in the sand’.

On behalf of Forvie’s wildlife, we are eternally grateful for the co-operation of visitors to the Reserve in respecting the sanctuary area, and likewise for the local people who show the way ahead to those less familiar with the arrangement. You are helping to conserve an internationally important colony of seabirds in one of their last remaining strongholds in Scotland. Thank you!

While the rate of compliance with the barrier fence arrangement is generally very good, we tend to have more trouble convincing people to respect the wider Reserve and its wildlife. In particular, the ‘please keep dogs on leads or at heel’ message seems to be difficult for folk to take on board. This may be because a lot of the wildlife of the heath and dunes is cryptic and hard to see – but this doesn’t mean it isn’t actually there! For instance, for all the Skylarks you hear singing, how many do you actually see?

Likewise the waterbirds around the freshwater pools and lochs. Forvie has several pairs of breeding Snipe, for instance; these are a much-declined breeder in Scotland, and their discreet habits and beautiful camouflage make them very difficult to see. Like the aforementioned Skylark, these also nest on the ground, and disturbance from an off-lead dog can be enough for the parent birds to abandon their eggs or young – in which case their breeding season is written off for another year.

Not to mention Forvie’s Roe Deer of course. Like the birds, they have their young in the summer, and this makes them especially vulnerable to disturbance or attack by dogs running free. Sadly there have been several recorded deer fatalities in this manner at Forvie in the past few years, so I promise we’re not being over-sensitive here.

As well as chatting with visitors face-to-face out on site, we use various kinds of signs and interpretation to try to get these important messages across. One of our helpers in this respect is Larry the wooden Labrador, who stands sentinel at the end of Waterside Wood for the duration of the bird breeding season. Unfortunately, because Larry carries a message that not everybody wants to hear, he’s been the subject of several bouts of vandalism down the years. This is both upsetting and annoying to the Reserve team for two reasons: firstly because we hope to think Larry isn’t asking anything unreasonable (especially given that Forvie is an internationally important wildlife refuge); and secondly it costs us time (and public money) to repair the damage. Though I suspect Larry’s repair costs are a fraction of a typical vet’s bill in any case!

However, Larry is a tough old Labrador, and he’ll be back again before too long. He’s currently in the vet’s practice (i.e. the Reserve workshop), getting thoroughly patched up, ready for another season’s loyal service sticking up for Forvie’s wildlife. At this juncture, it’s worth pointing out that the name Larry is actually short for Lazarus, given that he has been brought back from the dead on more than one occasion. These days he’s a long-serving and valued member of our team, and we hope the season ahead is kind to him!

It is worth mentioning that many of Forvie’s regular dog-walkers are super-respectful of the Reserve and its wildlife, and once again we are super-grateful to them for setting the best example for others to follow – quite literally ‘taking the lead’. When all’s said and done, this is a great place to take your dog for a long, invigorating, enjoyable walk – it’s simply a case of remembering you’re on a National Nature Reserve, and not just a park or a bit of waste ground. A little bit of respect and consideration goes a long way: both the wildlife and the Reserve staff will testify to that. For more, check out this video.

To finish up this week, a slightly-delayed but richly-deserved shout-out for the North East Sea Kayakers who recently carried out a litter pick on the upper Ythan Estuary near Logie Buchan bridge. To paraphrase an old beer advert, they were literally able to reach the parts that other litter pickers can’t reach. In a Herculean effort, around 120 kgs of litter were recovered from the estuary and left by the old boathouse for us to collect with our pickup truck. This was a magnificent result, and a massive feather in the Club’s collective cap. Well done folks, on behalf of Forvie and its wildlife.

That’s the first week of April done then. Clocks forward, barrier fence up, bird breeding season officially underway. All we need now is for the monsoon season to end.

Ah well, maybe next week…

I work weekdays here at Forvie. That means weekends are my days off, and time to let my proverbial hair down a bit (gone are the days when I had long enough hair to do this in the literal sense). The weekend of 23rd-24th March this year was no exception, and the Saturday night had seen me out in Inverness for some music and one or two liquid refreshments, before returning home on the Sunday. Consequently, by the time Sunday evening rolled around, I was quite content to sit in the armchair before the fire, cup of tea in hand, drowsing peacefully with brain in neutral and body in recovery mode. That was until the phone rang.

Irritably getting out of my seat to pick up the phone, I checked the number on the screen before answering. It was a neighbour of ours, a keen birder, and I wondered what he was phoning about at this time of the night (it was about a quarter past seven, and well after sunset). The voice on the end of the line sounded somewhat agitated to say the least. “Get yourself to Sand Loch NOW, and bring a telescope… drake Bufflehead…” Sorry, did you say Bufflehead?! What the actual…

A bit of context is probably required here. Bufflehead is a species of duck native to North America, and an extreme rarity in Europe. None of us here had ever seen one, except for the pinioned captive ones in the ornamental waterfowl collection at WWT Slimbridge, which don’t really count. And here potentially was a wild bird, all the way from America, being reported on the loch at the end of our road. These are the moments that the die-hard local patch birder lives for.

Naturally, the first course of action was to grab the ‘scope and leg it up to the top of the garden (still wearing my slippers), from where we can see about half of the loch. I’m very keen on my ‘garden list’, and this would make an unlikely addition to say the least. Despite the gathering gloom, sure enough here was the unmistakable outline of a male Bufflehead, head under wing, roosting on the loch. That’ll be species no.173 on the aforementioned list then! Now to get ourselves down to the loch, meet up with the now-rather-frazzled observer who had phoned us, and try and capture a photographic record.

By this point it was almost completely dark, but we were able to locate the man of the moment in the gloom. We were soon joined by two more neighbours, and another local birder who proceeded to set a new world record for the 100-metres-across-boggy-grassland. The next wee while was a microcosm of what makes Forvie a brilliant and bonkers place to live and work: six observers standing in a marsh in almost total pitch darkness, craic flowing, squinting through telescopes at something none of us probably thought we’d ever see, and snapping away blindly with cameras while hoping the duck was actually in the frame. Sometimes the best moments in birding have an element of schoolboy slapstick farce about them, and I for one don’t ever want to grow up in this respect.

Happily, news broke the following morning (long before I was out of bed) that the Bufflehead was still present on the loch. This gave us an opportunity to see the bird in actual daylight, but more importantly, it gave lots of other people the chance to come and have a look too. For the next two days the Reserve played host to many happy visitors, a mixture of familiar faces and those who had travelled from further afield to pay their respects to this wanderer from across the Atlantic. Among the local visitors was naturalist and photographer Ron Macdonald, to whom we are very grateful for allowing us to use his superb photographs to illustrate this article.

During the Bufflehead’s residency on Sand Loch, there was a lot of chat about its credentials as a wild bird. Escapees from ornamental waterfowl collections can cloud the picture somewhat, meaning it’s not always easy to identify a genuine vagrant. But ‘our’ bird showed no signs of captivity, with a full set of flight feathers, undamaged plumage and, most importantly, no rings on its legs to indicate a captive origin. (During that slapstick-comedy first evening, the observer who found the bird managed to see one of its legs at least was unringed – but in texting out the news to the birding community, a combination of predictive text and not having his glasses meant he nearly reported it with a description of “One leg. Unhinged”. The joys of the digital age.)

Meanwhile, people were beginning to piece together the possible details of the Bufflehead’s journey to Sand Loch. Apparently a bird matching his description had been seen in the far west of Ireland, in County Galway, back in January. What was thought to be the same individual was then seen in February in Westmeath, before moving a short distance eastwards to Cavan. He was last seen in Ireland on 13th March, before turning up across the Irish Sea at Carbeth Loch, Clyde, on 19th. Then, five days later, he pitched up here on the Reserve – following almost a straight north-easterly heading throughout. And by the morning of 27th, after a two-day stay, he had forsaken the comforts of Sand Loch and moved on once again.

Based on his journey so far, what’s in store next for our intrepid traveller? Norway would seem the likeliest place for him to appear next, based on his north-eastward trajectory. Who knows, if he keeps heading eastwards, he may eventually make it back to his North American homeland by literally coming full-circle. We wish him the best of luck of course.

Whatever the future holds for this brave little duck, he’ll never know the joy and wonder he brought to so many people during his short stay at Forvie. And what a great postscript to the Sand Loch story too. That’s nature for you – it never ceases to amaze and to delight.

Last week saw us past the spring equinox, and once again the hours of daylight have begun to outnumber the hours of darkness. While this is a welcome milestone in the year, it seems hard to believe that nearly a quarter of 2024 has already elapsed. Here on the Reserve we feel we’ve barely had time to draw breath so far this year, despite the crazy season having barely started. At least we can’t complain about a dull life.

In the natural world, there have been signs this past week of the pace of life beginning to pick up. Not least the sighting of the first couple of bumblebees of the year. The first of these shot past me at about 40 mph on the heath, and thus evaded identification to species level. The second, however, was much more obliging: a fine queen Red-tailed Bumblebee.

The emergence of the year’s first bumblebee is always an eagerly-awaited indication that spring has properly arrived. Using some other species as heralds of spring can be a bit subjective: while we may hear Skylarks singing on the odd fine day earlier in the year, they go quiet again when it turns cold, as if they’ve gone off the idea. Likewise the Black-headed Gulls occupying their breeding colony for a day or two, before summarily abandoning it again in the face of adverse weather. But there’s something unequivocal about seeing your first bumblebee: that’s definitely spring now. Not least because for the bee itself, there’s no going back: once they’ve woken from their winter dormancy, they can’t then decide to go back to bed.

Sharp-eyed readers may notice an unusual pale band on the bee’s thorax (Red-tailed Bumblebees are usually all black apart from the red tip to the abdomen). Look really closely at the photo, and the pale band actually comprises a number of mites clinging to the bee’s furry body. This isn’t as much of a problem for the bee as it perhaps might seem: the mites usually simply hitch a ride on the bee in order to set up home in its nest. There they may perform useful functions for the bee colony, such as feeding on parasites and thus keeping their numbers in check, meaning a healthier environment for the bees themselves. Most things in nature, however bizarre they may seem, happen for good reason!

Bees and many other insects time their emergence to coincide with the availability of food, notably pollen and nectar from flowering plants. Anyone who has walked the estuary-side footpath lately will doubtless have noticed the Gorse coming into bloom, and this is a really useful nectar source to early-emerging pollinators.

It’s a bit early in the year yet to appreciate the delicious smell of flowering Gorse. Sweet, heady and more than a little reminiscent of coconut, it’s best enjoyed on a still summer’s day, when the scent hangs heavy in the warm air. On the cool and windy days that we experienced last week, you had to really stick your nose up close to the flowers to have any chance of smelling their fragrance. But this is a risky business, as noses are sensitive and Gorse is viciously spiky. Not a good combination I can assure you (from experience, of course).

Another plant newly in flower, though rather less obvious than the Gorse along the riverside, was this Red Deadnettle that we found at the ternery. While it’s a close relative of the familiar Stinging Nettle, and indeed bears a certain family resemblance, it lacks the sting of its commoner cousin. Its attractive powder-pink flowers are another March bonus for insects who have risen early in the year.

Other spring flowers are now at their height – or even beginning to go over. Most of the Snowdrops are now gone to seed, while the Lesser Celandines we reported upon recently are currently at their very best, looking like a scatter of tiny suns fallen to earth.

This past week saw several ‘extra-curricular’ events on top of the usual day-to-day duties on the Reserve. These comprised an all-day school field trip, an away-day at Muir of Dinnet NNR to help with some tree-cutting work, an evening talk at the Forvie Centre by Aberdeenshire Council ranger Sarah Gosden, and a public beach clean. The latter two events formed part of the programme for Climate Week North East.

The beach clean took place on Thursday – the day of the spring equinox itself – and was well-attended despite the grey and cold conditions. And as usual, the litter was plentiful and many bags were filled.

We were grateful to Lauren Dunkley from East Grampian Coastal Partnership for doing the lion’s share of the organising, and equally to the team from Scottish Water who came along to help. Not to mention all the local folk and Forvie regulars who also gave up their time for the cause. Between us all, we lifted well over 100 kg of litter from the beach at Rockend and from the estuary foreshore south of Waterside. Well done to all, and thank you on behalf of all the wildlife that gets affected by marine litter. That’s at least a bit more plastic removed from our environment.

In between all this, we just about managed to squeeze in a bit more fencing work in South Forvie, prior to the breeding birds settling down. We hope to have the fence completed and ready for electrification by the end of the coming week. And not before time – local naturalist Ron Macdonald sighted the first Sandwich Tern of the year back on the estuary on Tuesday. Hopefully the first of many.

While working at the ternery, we noticed another migrant had made landfall, though this one was a bit less expected: a European Mole. While we didn’t see the beast in question, we did find irrefutable evidence. Molehills are a common sight at this time of the year in pasture and gardens, but this is the first time we’d ever seen them at the ternery. In order to get here, the intrepid Mole must have had to traverse the huge open sand-sheet to the north of the ternery (the area is otherwise bounded by water on all sides). Whether it did so by tunneling through the endless sand, or moving above ground under cover of darkness, is a mystery.

More predictable was the appearance of the first Chiffchaff of the year – like the Sandwich Tern, this is a summer visitor to our region, spending the winter in warmer climes to the south. Once again, the Reserve staff were beaten to the first sighting by a sharp-eyed local observer, in whose garden the Chiffchaff was breaking its northward journey.

Also breaking their journey north were this gang of Whooper Swans on the estuary. Unlike the aforementioned Chiffchaff and Sandwich Tern, who are arriving with us for the coming summer, these wild swans are in the process of leaving us. They will head for the far north-west of Scotland, and there wait for a suitable day’s weather – preferably a light south-easterly tailwind – to make the long sea crossing to Iceland. We wish them luck for their onward travels, and look forward to seeing them return again in the autumn.

That’s the spring equinox past then. Next stop the summer solstice. Time waits for nobody!

It’s been a grey old week on the reserve. Of course, the problem about writing about the weather on the blog is that it’s usually totally different to what you’re talking about by the time it’s published – you say what a great week we’ve had and it lashes rain, or vice versa. This week, winds out of the north and east have kept it cold, and it only started to feel warm on odd occasions through the week. It seemed to put spring on hold – flowers which looked like they were about to burst into bloom have stayed budded and the birds, who were trying a few snatches of song last week, have gone quiet again. Everything seemed to be having a bit of a sulk, waiting for warmer days.

Only the hazel catkins seemed to be giving us a splash of colour on the grey days. The hazel tree at Waterside carpark is festooned with golden catkins just now. Opening early in the year – sometimes even at the end of the previous year – they provide a welcome hint of spring colour before anything else gets going.

For a day or two mid-week, while not that sunny, it had definitely warmed up. You’d come out the house and think, oooh, that’s a different air today. Not so cold, and and that bitter, bony, gnawing wind chill had gone. And the response from the wildlife was almost instant. On Thursday morning there was a song thrush singing somewhere in the Collieston direction, and this was the also the first day we heard the frogs and toads getting it on in the ditch at Sand Loch.

You have to listen quite carefully to hear them. It’s not a loud sound and can often – until you get close to the ditch – be drowned by the sound of the wind or sea (or helicopters – we are on the flight path here and some days you can’t hear yourself think). But it’s worth pausing, and bending down by the ditch and listening for that warm, froggy chorus. Somewhere between a burp and a purr, it’s the sound of love in the amphibian wold.

While I’ve never seen frogs clasped together out of the water, toads are a different matter and males will often ‘hitch a ride’ on a female, the idea being that he’s in prime mating position when they reach water. While we often picture amphibians as being associated with water, some, like toads, spend much of their lives away from water. But they have to return to breed and many will head for the pond where they themselves were spawned. For toads, this can involve journeys of up to 5 kilometres – that’s a long way when your legs are that short! It’s also an incredibly risky time of year for them – many toads die crossing roads, and their single-minded drive to get to a breeding site and mate also makes them easy prey for everything from herons to otters to badgers. I’ve even seen a sea eagle swoop down and fly off with a talon-full of toads that must have formed a big mating ball.

Away from the fresh water, there have been some massive tides on the estuary this week. We’re approaching the spring equinox and often we have huge tides around then. Inch Geck, the island in the Sleek of Tarty, had almost disappeared on Monday.

While the huge tides cover the mudflats and conceal the birds’ feeding areas, they can often open up new places to feed. Redshank in particular love poking around the saltmarsh on a very high tide, and you see them in places they normally don’t use.

Inevitably, the high tides have brought and left marine litter on the beach. Good time to do a beach clean then – and there’s one on next Thursday for Climate Week North-East. Details of how you can join in are here – any help gratefully received!

Another spring sign is the return of the fulmars, or maalies, to the Forvie cliffs. Usually the first bird to return to the cliffs (except maybe the ravens), they have the longest breeding season of any of our seabirds. They will start hanging around in March, establishing territories and re-establishing their pair bonds. They often remind us of old married couples bickering when they gurk and cackle at one another and, probably, in a way they are. They are monogamous and mate for life, and can live up to 60 years – so they may have been with the same partner for a very long time indeed!

They won’t lay an egg until May, then will incubate it for around 50 days. Then, it will take the chick over two months to mature. They are here for the long haul so keep an eye out for them if you are walking the cliffs this weekend.

Lastly, Friday saw another landmark in Forvie’s year. Despite it being a dreich, grey, cold and wet morning, the black-headed gulls were back on their ancestral colony site for the first time this year. The happy babble of gulls could be heard on the wind from across the water at Newburgh beach, as the birds bickered and postured and chatted one another up. These most social of birds are gearing up for a busy breeding season ahead, and despite Friday’s grim weather, they sounded full of the joys of spring.

Well it definitely looks and sounds like Forvie’s wildlife is ready for spring. So come on now, weather, do us a favour please…