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…

It may not have felt like it, but this past week contained the official first day of summer at Forvie. In Reserve staff parlance, this is how we refer to the day upon which the ternery fence gets put up (or at least starts getting put up). And this year, that day was Thursday 7th March: the start of the crazy season. Problem is, it only seems like five minutes since we took the fence down at the end of last summer, and this unbelievably quick turnaround seems to defy science and logic. I, for one, am convinced that the Earth now orbits the Sun far more quickly than it used to.

Day one of the fencing job requires lots of pairs of hands, and as such has to be organised well in advance. Consequently, when the day arrives, you have to have what you’re given in terms of weather and working conditions. In seasons past we’ve endured some truly dreadful days of gales, sideways sleet, heavy rain and perishingly cold temperatures (thus there’s a teensy bit of irony in the oft-used ‘official first day of summer’ line). This time around, however, things could have been plenty worse.

As always with this particular job, a debt of thanks is owed to our trusty band of volunteers who all put in a real shift. The 1,000-metre fence requires twenty hefty rolls of mesh netting, over 400 poly-poles and a substantial volume of ancillary bits and pieces; merely getting all this kit to where it needs to be is a considerable task. Never mind turning it all into something approaching a decent predator-proof fence. We quite literally couldn’t do it without all the extra help.

This year, special mention must also go to Simon from Muir of Dinnet NNR, who loaned us not just a very capable hand, but also his pickup truck. In the weeks leading up to this job, Forvie’s own pickup truck – an increasingly venerable, creaky and salt-encrusted old workhorse – failed its MoT and has since been laid up awaiting spare parts (this is hardly surprising given the tough life it’s endured here over the years). Shifting a half-ton of fencing materials a mile down the estuary by hand wasn’t a delightful prospect; thus we owe Simon a favour or two for answering the distress-call and coming to our rescue. And henceforth the Dinnet truck will forever be known as Thunderbird 1.

Earlier in the week, we had visited the ternery ahead of the big day, in order to strim the vegetation along the line of the fence. In recent years, the area has turned into a waist-high jungle of Marram Grass, presumably partly as a result of all the nitrate and phosphate deposited in the area by thousands of birds every summer. A broad swathe must be cut through the dense thatch with a brushcutter in order to accommodate the fence; this is a time-consuming job as well as being extremely hard on the machine (and in particular the metal cutting-blade, which gets worn down by the abrasive sand in double-quick time). The end result looks rather like a motorway cut through virgin countryside: it’s not pretty, but in this instance it’s absolutely necessary.

The three tanks of two-stroke mix required to complete the strimming job were indicative of just how much cutting is required these days. In my early seasons at Forvie, this wasn’t necessary at all, but there has been a marked change in the vegetation cover at the ternery over the past fifteen years or so. As mentioned previously, the birds themselves are possibly partly responsible, but there seem to be other influences at play too. As we remarked in last week’s Sand Loch blog, the whole Reserve appears to be becoming greener, lusher and more vegetated over time.

Look at and compare the following two photos, from 2011 and 2023 respectively, and you may begin to see my point. Note in particular: 1) the extent of bare sand, 2) the size of the green enriched area around the ternery (south of the big open sand sheet), and 3) the size and position of the aforementioned sand sheet. There’s no doubt there are changes afoot!

To further illustrate the changes that are taking place over time, we recently received the following photo from Ewen Cameron, long-term friend of Forvie and former work colleague (now happily retired, but as busy as ever banging the drum for nature). This shows the area of the ternery in the late 1970s, and it’s almost unrecognisable from today’s scene. Where has all that bare sand gone? Are the alterations we’re witnessing due to changes in climate, or weather patterns, or something else entirely? What will Forvie look like in another forty years? Food for thought indeed.

Back to the present day, and while undertaking the fencing job we were treated to the aerial acrobatics and sweetly-lilting voices of several pairs of Ringed Plovers, as they indulged in display-flights over the area in which we were working. Of all the birds to breed at the ternery, these are the earliest to re-occupy their summer territories. They remind me irresistibly of anxious little pensioners who, terrified of being late for an appointment, turn up miles in advance of anything actually happening. Their presence is one of the earliest and surest signs of the impending spring, and they make for a very welcome sight and sound.

Meanwhile, the Black-headed Gulls have begun to gather on the adjacent estuary, and on the nicer days such that we had early in the week, they’ve started to make the right noises. As Catriona quite correctly observed, it begins to sound like summer at Forvie when the gulls find their collective voice.

Another species making its presence felt on the estuary during the week was the Red-breasted Merganser. These rakish diving-ducks are looking their smartest just now, with the drakes trying hard to impress the females. Their plumage is a riot of different colours and textures, and a close-range view of one is always enjoyable. In both sexes, the spiky ‘punk hairdo’ crest is a key field-mark, and this helps the casual observer to separate this species from its close relative the Goosander.

A much smaller piece of bird news with which to finish up this week – but a significant one nonetheless. Friday morning saw myself, Danny and volunteer Richard return to the ternery to continue with some fencing work. On leaving the van at the little shelter-belt of trees south of Waterside, we met with the high-pitched contact-calls of a Goldcrest emanating from the dense Sitka Spruce cover. Goldcrests are well-known for their astonishing autumn migration from Scandinavia, when they arrive exhausted but unbeaten on our coast after a marathon non-stop flight. Of course, those that have survived the winter must return again in the spring, and it’s possible that this particular Goldcrest was in the process of doing just that. As such, it probably constitutes the first bona-fide spring migrant of 2024!

Well, that’s it then – the crazy season at Forvie is officially underway. Fasten your seat belts folks.

This week’s subject matter came about as the cumulative result of several recent (and unprompted) conversations with neighbours, visitors and colleagues. The topic of conversation in each case was the Sand Loch, and the consensus was that it used to be rubbish for wildlife. In recent times, though, something seems to have changed, and these days the loch is a proper little biodiversity hotspot.

This represents good news on two fronts. Firstly that the loch appears to be improving for wildlife, and secondly that the good people of Collieston (who overlook the loch), as well as the many folk who regularly visit the top end of the Reserve, have noticed the change and commented upon it. As a subject of conversation, wildlife is a great leveller, and a nice change from the usual chat about the weather, or whatever dreadful stuff is happening in the news at any given time.

So what’s going on here then? Speaking to folk who have lived in Collieston for many years reveals a different Sand Loch to the one that we know today. In years gone by, this was a very open, exposed and barren place, not much more than water and bare sand, with little in the way of vegetation either in or around the loch. Over the years, and in common with other areas of the Reserve, the loch has become greener and lusher, for a number of possible reasons. Atmospheric nitrogen deposition, nutrient-rich topsoil blown from adjacent farmland, and the gradual buildup of silt from the continued growth and decay of aquatic plants may all have played a part. The net result is a richer and more complex environment than was the case when the loch was first formed.

As with all other fresh water bodies, there is a ‘sweet spot’ in terms of nutrient levels – depending on what species you are. Some species favour low-nutrient (oligotrophic) water bodies, where there is little competition from other species. Others prefer very nutrient-rich (eutrophic) waters in which to grow, live or breed. And the sliding scale between highly-oligotrophic and highly-eutrophic waters supports a continuously variable cross-section of aquatic life.

The modern-day Sand Loch probably sits somewhere in the middle of the sliding scale, and like Goldilocks’ porridge, this is just right for a wide range of species. The loch retains a large area of open water, but also now has well-vegetated margins, a bit of emergent vegetation, plenty of submerged plants, and a nice area of mire at the Collieston end of the loch, rich in sedges and horsetails. The array of water plants supports a micro-fauna of tiny invertebrates, which in turn support aquatic insects, which in turn support amphibians and fish, and on top of the food web sit predatory species such as waterbirds and perhaps a roving Otter.

The other long-term change – once again in common with other parts of the Reserve – has been the establishment and spread of scrubby trees around its margins. These are chiefly willows, but with some Alder and Silver/Downy Birch mixed in for good measure. This additional and varied habitat further increases the range of species that are now able to call Sand Loch their home. In spring, these scrubby areas resound to the excitable chatter of Sedge Warblers, the disjointed song of Reed Buntings, and now and then the strange whirring of a Grasshopper Warbler. As well as the breeding species, various migrant birds also use these areas when breaking their spring and autumn journeys.

Forvie staff are a largely terrestrial species, and as such we know very little about what goes on beneath the surface of the loch. There is a rumour that the loch contains (or contained) Pike, a ferocious predatory fish, which was allegedly introduced for angling purposes somewhere in the dim and distant past. In recent years it was thought that Pike were perhaps responsible for the short shelf-life of any ducklings hatched on Sand Loch (although, of course, there are many other suspects in cases of disappearing ducklings besides Pike). We know there must be a reasonable population of fish in the loch due to the frequent visits of piscivorous birds like Cormorants and Goosanders. But so far, the only fish we’ve seen have been Stickleback – and even then, usually only when they’re being swallowed by one of the aforementioned birds!

It’s probably the loch’s birdlife that has constituted the most obvious change. I well recall being asked, more than once, why there were never any birds on Sand Loch. Right enough, save for the odd Tufted Duck or gang of visiting gulls, I never saw much there in my first few years at Forvie. Fast-forward to 2024, though, and the loch now boasts a proud track record. All the common duck species have occurred, some of which are resident for large stretches of the year. A typical walk around the loch in recent weeks would produce Mallard, Teal, Wigeon, Tufted Duck and perhaps the odd Shoveler, Goldeneye, Goosander or Red-breasted Merganser. Not a bad haul for a small stretch of water.

There have also been increasingly frequent records of scarcer species turning up, and sometimes sticking around for days or weeks afterwards, having unexpectedly found Sand Loch to their liking. These have included oddities like Black-throated Diver, Slavonian and Red-necked Grebes, Smew and Ring-necked Duck, as well as storm-driven seabirds such as Gannet and Arctic Skua.

The loch margins, meanwhile, are havens for Grey Herons and Snipe, as well as being the breeding site for the famous Sand Loch Mute Swans. The loch has never had a great record for breeding waterfowl; it is more-or-less surrounded by footpaths, waymarked or otherwise, and the daily presence of people and (particularly) dogs is enough to put off most species from even thinking about nesting here. The swans are the exception, and they seem unfazed by all the human and canine activity going on around them. Even so, at least one of their fledglings in 2023 was killed by a dog (or perhaps an extremely intrepid and burly Fox), so they don’t have it all their own way. But their daily lives are followed closely by our regulars and residents, in a sort of Springwatch-like natural soap opera. In this sense, the swans are a real asset: if folk keep their dogs on the lead to help the swans, they’re also inadvertently helping the plethora of less-obvious-but-no-less-sensitive wildlife in the area.

But there is evidence of other aquatic life in the Sand Loch besides just birds. The regular appearance on the loch-side road of Palmate Newts, Common Toads and Common Frogs suggests that the loch plays an important part in their respective life-cycles. Insects are represented by Common Blue, Large Red and Blue-tailed Damselflies among many others (perhaps the less said about the ubiquitous Biting Midge the better). And, of course, there was last year’s momentous Water Vole sighting (I say this because it was the first one I’d ever seen on the Reserve in all the years I’ve been here!).

In summary then, it appears that Sand Loch through the ages has taken much the same course as a newly-established garden pond – initially rather empty, slow to get going, then gradually being colonised by vegetation, and eventually maturing into a haven for wildlife. These days it’s a well-loved and nature-rich corner of the Reserve, rightly popular with visitors and locals alike – surely one of the jewels in Forvie’s remarkable crown.

Hi folks! Apologies for the delay in getting the blog out. It’s been a rather hectic week on the reserve and the sunny weather brought a lot of visitors on site over the weekend – which is brilliant, but a bit of extra work for me!

This week I’d like to continue a theme I started a few months ago, when I talked about some of Forvie’s more numerous, yet still very fascinating species, which deserve an honourable mention. At this time of year, it’s very easy to spot Common Buzzard (Buteo buteo) on several sites across the reserve, so I thought it was a good time to write a bit about them.

These large and compactly built raptors, are among my favourite birds of prey and I think they are massively underrated because they are now so common. They have real character and personality, aren’t fussed about eating earthworms (quite funny to watch such an imposing bird doing that!), their mournful mewing calls can be mistaken for cats and even their Latin name is easy to remember, Buteo buteo. What can’t you like about this bird! It probably doesn’t come as a surprise to learn that ‘Buteo’ is Latin for ‘buzzard’ and shouldn’t be confused with the Turkey vulture, which is sometimes called a buzzard colloquially in America. The Buteo genus was introduced by the French naturalist Bernard Germain de Lacépède in 1799, by tautonymy with the specific name of this species.

As a kid, I’d read about them in various bird books and the descriptions would always refer to this species as being a scarce raptor, restricted to the rugged, wild hills of the north and west of the UK. Certainly an unusual sight for a young Soundgrounder from Southport, exploring the flat and industrial plains of Merseyside. The frustrated young ornithologist in me would scribble black pen across the UK distribution maps of the species, as I believed it should’ve been more widespread than it was, given its broad, non-fussy, habitat requirements – and now I have a raft of bird books I can’t sell – never mind! Fast forward twenty plus years and they are the most common and widespread UK (and Eurasian) bird of prey with an estimated population of 70,000 pairs, stretching from John O’Groats to Land’s End.

Their recovery across the UK is nothing short of miraculous and hasn’t involved any reintroductions or translocations, they’ve simply come back of their own accord. This is largely down to two significant changes in land use: the banning of DDT (Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane), which caused egg shell thinning in bird of prey eggs (among other issues highlighted in Rachel Carson’s book ‘Silent Spring’) and reduced illegal persecution – emphasis on ‘reduced’, because unfortunately, illegal persecution still happens as it’s very difficult to police. But the situation is gradually improving year on year, largely thanks to the unwavering dedication of wildlife crime officers, conservation organisations and better informed education about birds of prey in general.

The buzzard is quite large, compact and robust looking, with a body length of up to 60cm and broad, rounded wings which can measure up to 130cm, and a short neck and tail. They are quite chunky for their body size and the larger females can weigh in at 1.4kg. When gliding and soaring, buzzards often hold their wings in a shallow ‘V’ and the tail is fanned. This aerial profile can cause confusion and from a distance, these birds can sometimes resemble the appearance of eagles.

I remember the first time I saw a buzzard and to 11 year old Danny, it certainly looked like an eagle – big, regal, powerful and imposing. It was so exciting and I still wasn’t disappointed when I discovered what species it actually was. On the subject of misidentification, it probably isn’t that surprising to hear that these birds have been sentimentally and comically named ‘Tourist Eagles’ or ‘Telegraph-pole Eagles’. It would be rather entertaining if these colloquial names ever made it into the scientific literature. I highly doubt it would ever happen, but one can hope! Golden (Aquila chrysaetos) and White-tailed Eagles (Haliaeetus albicilla) are much, much larger than buzzards. However, some smaller species of eagle, such as the Booted Eagle (Hieraaetus pennatus) are quite similar in stature and overall dimensions to the buzzard – but they don’t live here in the UK – so there’s less confusion!  

Buzzards vary in colour from all dark brown to much paler variations and can sometimes be mistaken for the much rarer winter migrant from Scandinavia, the Rough-legged Buzzard. However, regardless of their colour variations, all have those signature dark wingtips and finely-striped tails.  These opportunistic raptors will just as readily scavenge carrion as they will hunt prey. Buzzards are not fussy eaters and will prey on anything ranging from carrion to rabbits and even venomous adders!

In fact, our colleagues at the Muir of Dinnet, will have memories from several years back, of a large female buzzard which had become specialised in hunting adders. Much to the despair of everyone marvelling at the adders, they would be greeted with a rather smug looking raptor with a writhing, tangled snake in her talons. As mentioned before, these highly adaptable and resilient birds will even resort to eating earthworms. This is an especially common feeding habit when other sources of food are scarce. They can really struggle in icy conditions when their normal prey (rabbits, birds etc.) are scarce and the ground is too frozen to extract worms.

The subject of feeding, brings me onto a rather unfortunate finding to report from earlier this week. One of our regular visitors sadly found a dead buzzard in Waterside Wood. Whenever conservation personnel hear about the passing of raptors, we have to always consider the possibility of foul play. It’s a reflection on the fact that persecution is still a significant issue in the UK.

But fortunately, after examining this beautiful bird, it became very obvious that it had died of natural causes, having most likely starved, as it was extremely emaciated – more or less skin and bone sadly (even its crop was empty – a full crop would possibly indicate poisoning). It may well be that this individual had become unable to hunt effectively and starved as a result, which might indicate old age. Unfortunately, it had no rings, so we will never be able to accurately determine its age, but having looked at its rather ragged tail feathers (not obvious in the photograph), it certainly didn’t appear to be a young bird. It’s a sorry sight to witness, but at least in this particular instance, we can say with upmost confidence that this bird’s journey had come to a natural end – the cycle of nature.

When walking around the reserve, please keep your eyes peeled, especially near the plantation woodlands by Cotehill Loch and Waterside, where the buzzards roost in winter. As discussed, winter is a tough time for them and therefore a perfect opportunity for spotting, because they have to expend more energy and time into looking for food.

I hope you enjoyed reading this blog and perhaps next time you see a buzzard soaring in the winter sky or hear one mewing, you’ll remember what a miraculous, tough and resilient bird this is. Maybe its story as a survivor, against all odds, will bring you a smile.

In years gone by at Forvie, February used to be a relatively quiet month, a chance to draw breath before embarking on the six months of mayhem that make up spring and summer. Time to draw up plans for how to tackle the season ahead, and to get all our ducks in a row (so to speak) before the onset of the busiest period in the Reserve’s calendar. Sounds good in theory, right?

Right. But sometimes things just don’t work out that way, and the past few days has seen a packed schedule. The regular monthly duties – checking and maintaining the trails, infrastructure and vehicles, censusing the seals and waterfowl on the estuary, keeping the media channels ticking over, and so on – have been supplemented by a recruitment exercise for a seasonal warden (see here), a university field trip, a research meeting, plus two evening functions on consecutive nights. We’ve probably spoken directly to more people this week than in the previous six weeks put together. But unless there’s a compelling reason not to, we always try to take every opportunity to spread the good word about the Reserve and nature conservation in general.

The public-facing elements of the week were an eclectic mix in themselves. The university field trip, involving thirty-three students from Robert Gordon University, was an exercise in assessing theoretical proposals for development on or near a protected area (for example a Site of Special Scientific Interest). With Forvie being covered by just about every environmental designation under the sun (SSSI, SPA, SAC, Ramsar site – you name it), the Reserve makes an ideal case study, and it was a chance for the students to bleed us dry for information on environmental protection and potential impacts of development.

The two evening talks each required a different angle again. The first, on Monday night, was delivered to the Newburgh Action for Climate and Environment (ACE) group, and covered the subject of gardening for wildlife. The following night, it was the turn of Ellon Historical Society, who had requested a slide show about Forvie’s natural and human history. Both events were remarkably well-attended, and we were very grateful to be offered the opportunity to speak to each group.

I must confess, though, that I had to do a fair bit of cramming in order to get my historical facts straight for the second of the two talks. Reserve staff are well known as jacks-of-all-trades, and not necessarily experts in all fields; sometimes when given a more specific assignment, we are made acutely aware of the gaps in our knowledge, and some quickfire research is required to fill in the blanks! However, this is one of the great things about working on a site like Forvie: you never stop learning.

In between our public speaking commitments, we did manage to get around some of the trails to see what was afloat – quite literally. Much of the outer Heath Trail is still deep under floodwater, and access is awkward if you don’t have a good waterproof pair of boots. But it did look fabulous in the winter sunshine that we enjoyed in the early part of the week.

The bright sunlight showed up the lichen heath at its very best, the silver-blue carpet relieved here and there with tiny splashes of red. One of my missions for the next couple of years is to begin to get to grips with the different lichen species that make up this fascinating habitat. But lichen identification isn’t for the faint-hearted, and at some point I will need to hang upon the coat-tails of an expert observer in order to learn the basics. This job is beyond the scope of Google Lens!

A walk along the coast path to Hackley Bay, in order to check the state of the footpaths, coincided with a monster high tide. I have never seen the bay as full as it was on Monday afternoon, with the entire beach and rocky shore completely submerged. Luckily it was a relatively calm day, as the sea was lapping against the footpath that Catriona and I had only recently repaired. With storm events becoming more frequent, and sometimes coinciding with big tides, we will need to keep a close eye on this in future.

On the cliffs nearby, the first few Fulmars had returned from their winter wanderings, and were ensconced on the ledges indulging in a bit of cosy chatter. Though this is undoubtedly a sign of the impending spring, it really looked like they’d never been away.

On the estuary, the same spring tides also gave rise to some impressively high water levels. Inch Geck island practically disappeared at times, and much of the saltmarsh downstream from Waterside was also inundated. Some local folk reckoned they’d never seen such high tides as these. Luckily for us (and for those folk with low-lying houses and gardens), these tides didn’t correspond with a storm or a big onshore wind.

Along with the reappearance of the Fulmars along Forvie’s cliffs, other little signs of spring were also making themselves known. Down at Waterside, and in the gardens of Collieston and Newburgh, the simple see-sawing song of the Great Tit is now being widely heard on the finer days.

Meanwhile on the estuary, we caught sight of at least a couple of Black-headed Gulls already moulted into their summer plumage, with a complete chocolate-brown hood and white eye-crescents. It won’t be long now until they’ll (hopefully) start showing an interest in their colony site, which of course we cleared of vegetation in readiness last week.

In the more sheltered areas of North Forvie, and around the villages, we’ve also started to notice the shiny dark green leaves of Lesser Celandines reaching for the light, and before too long we’ll start to see their distinctive yellow star-shaped flowers doing likewise – always an eagerly-anticipated ‘first’ for the year.

But for all that, winter hasn’t yet relinquished its hold on the Reserve and region. A couple of days in the week were genuinely cold (Wednesday’s waterfowl census was a particularly blue-nosed affair, for instance), and some of the winter’s best wildlife spectacles remain on offer to the weel-happit observer. In this past week, such highlights have included a colourful variety of ducks in their breeding finery displaying on the lochs and estuary, a male Hen Harrier quartering over the heath, and a fine gathering of Starlings in the vicinity of the Forvie Centre.

In between all the other duties of the past week, Catriona was lucky enough to capture some of the Starling action on camera. So having done more than enough blethering for one week, we’ll leave it there, and let the Starlings speak for themselves. Enjoy!

Last Wednesday was officially the first day of spring at Forvie. Not in the meteorological sense of course; we’ll have to wait until 1st March for that, and at a cool -4^oC on Wednesday morning it certainly didn’t feel like it in any case. But as we assembled at Waterside gate just before 0900, against the atmospheric backdrop of the Rooks swirling and cawing over the woods, we were setting out to tackle the first job of the summer season – preparing the ground at the ternery ready for the return of the breeding birds once again.

Our route took us along the foreshore of the Ythan Estuary, the pickup truck loaded to the gunwales with brushcutters, fuel, warm clothing and the critically-essential flasks of hot water with which to make a brew at half-time. Under our wheels, the foreshore was hard and crunchy, the overnight frost having been harsh enough to freeze the brackish water of the estuary. Allied to the frost, the becalmed conditions had served to create a bank of ice crystals along the high-tide mark, which by the time of our arrival had been left high and dry by the receding tide.

On arrival at the ternery, a sparkling layer of frost lay on the mobile dunes, welding the sand-grains together like Portland cement, and making walking through the deep sand uncharacteristically easy. This was much appreciated when laden down with brushcutter, fuel can and toolbox on top of eight layers of winter clothing.

With bright sunshine and an almost flawless blue sky, days like these look great in photos, or from behind glass – but it’s a different story when you actually venture outside. A biting wind served to knock several degrees off the indicated temperature, and even with gloves on it felt like our fingers had been shut in a door. This wasn’t a day for hanging about or standing still; time to get on with the booked job.

Of course, the reason for ‘brushcutters at dawn’ is to remove the dense ranks of dead stems left over from last summer’s plant growth. The principal species involved are Rosebay Willowherb and Stinging Nettle, both of which thrive on the disturbed ground and nutrient-rich soil created by the presence of thousands of seabirds each summer. By late winter the plants themselves are long dead, but the woody stems persist, and act in much the same way as the spikes fitted to city buildings to prevent pigeons and gulls from alighting on them. If left like this, the gulls and terns will have difficulty landing and manoeuvring around the colony, and much of the ground would be rendered unusable to them. So it’s up to us to intervene, and to ensure that the colony is ready for them when they return to Forvie from their winter travels.

This is, of course, a completely unnatural situation. As we’ve explained in the past, in the natural scheme of things, the birds would simply move to a different site if the ground conditions started to become unsuitable for them. But in our overcrowded world, and with so much of our coastline subject to intense pressures from human recreation and development, there simply aren’t any alternative sites available to them. Essentially they’re stuck here, making the best of a bad job; and by enriching the soil with their droppings, they are gradually rendering the habitat unsuitable for themselves. It’s only through the efforts of the Reserve team that the birds can continue to use this much-changed site.

So what we have here is a contrived situation. But with Forvie now supporting 25% of Scotland’s Black-headed Gulls and almost 50% of its Sandwich Terns (among others), the importance of the site is extraordinary. No pressure on us, then.

All that strimming creates a veritable thatch of dead stems on the ground, which can make life awkward for gulls and terns which walk about on short little legs. So the very next day we returned with our gang of trusty volunteer helpers to get all the cuttings raked off, piled up and burned. Once again we had a fabulous-if-cold day for the work (down to -6^oC this time), and there are few better winter jobs in conservation than those that involve a big bonfire and an occasional cuppa. We owe a great debt of thanks to all those who attended and put in a tremendous shift, allowing us to get the whole colony area cleared up and ready to receive gulls and terns in due course.

We were accompanied throughout the day by a small flock of Twite, bouncing and twanging their way around the ternery, and periodically settling to feed upon whatever tiny seeds they could find. They even managed to photo-bomb one of our shots of the bonfire in full swing, and you may be able to spot them exiting-stage-left in the following photo.

Of course, before lighting your bonfire it’s always wise to check that there aren’t any small creatures hiding within it. We checked ours, and duly evicted the small creature pictured here. Seemingly unfazed and unrepentant, it was released unharmed back into the wild.

The tracks of a different small creature were found in the bare sand nearby, preserved beautifully by the frost. These are clearly the footprints of a small rodent, but whether a Wood Mouse or Field Vole I wouldn’t like to say. Frosty mornings are brilliant for tracking, as the lack of wind and rain means that the tracks stay clear and sharp, frozen into the sand as if cast in plaster. On most other mornings, of course, such tiny tracks are rapidly obliterated by the wind, leaving no trace at all. So this week’s frosts offered a rare insight into the nightly wanderings of some of Forvie’s small mammals.

By the time the work was done, the weather had begun to change, and a 180^o shift in the wind brought with it some wintry showers (it turned out that this was a portent of what was to follow on Friday, a truly dreadful day of sleet and gales). A good time, then, to call it a day.

Finishing up on a completely unrelated note, I am delighted to be able to feature another fish in the Forvie blog, following on from the recent Boarfish washed up on the beach. This time it was the estuary foreshore that turned up the goods, when this beauty was spotted by the sharp-eyed Danny last weekend.

With a face only a mother could love, and a set of teeth to rival the late great Shane MacGowan, this gloriously-revolting-looking beast is of course a Monkfish. There are seven species of Monkfish, and although not all of them occur in Scottish waters, we still can’t be sure which species this particular one belongs to. Or, indeed, how it came to wash up here – fishing discards perhaps, though this seems unlikely given that Monkfish are a valuable and very saleable catch. Either way, it’s another first for Forvie for us all.

What a week that was on the Reserve. The first day of spring (well, sort of), a six-degree frost, a great big bonfire, and one of the ugliest fish on the planet. This place just keeps giving.

It’s fair to say it’s been a mixed sort of week on the Reserve. In terms of our duties, a fair chunk of the working week was taken up with the sort of irritating administrative tasks that really don’t make for compelling blog material. Such is the life of the present-day warden (even at ‘reserve dogsbody’ grade), and contrary to popular belief, not every day of the year is an action-packed, wildlife-filled adventure for us. In between the mundane stuff, though, we did manage to get out and about a bit, and on a couple of occasions this coincided with some rare settled and sunny days. And after the autumn and winter we’ve had, with the elements apparently trying to drown us and/or blow us away on a weekly basis, we were doubly grateful.

A wader and wildfowl census on Tuesday morning saw us plying the Ythan Estuary in cold and clear conditions. Duck and wader numbers were for the most part a little disappointing, due probably to the continued presence of large areas of floodwater in the fields throughout the region. Essentially the birds are spoiled for choice just now, with lots of lovely temporary feeding habitat on the go – so they disperse far and wide to cash in upon it, rather than concentrating here on the estuary. We’ll know if this is truly the case if we get a few days of hard frost, which serves to freeze the floodwater and send the waterfowl back down to the coast, where things are a bit milder (and a lot saltier), and therefore remain unfrozen. But I’ll be careful what I wish for.

Either way, there was no denying it was a fabulous day to be out and about – birds or no birds.

The last stop on our waterfowl-counting route is at Logie Buchan bridge, at the very upstream end of the tidal Ythan Estuary. This is the inland extent of the Reserve, and included within its westernmost boundary are the rather lovely reedbeds either side of the river. This is rare habitat in the North-east, and we’re lucky to have this small area of reedbed within the Reserve to add a further dimension to its remarkable biological diversity.

Reedbeds are unique places with an atmosphere all of their own. The sound of the wind through the reed stems (not that there was much breeze on the day these photos were taken) has a soothing, almost hypnotic effect, and the tall stems sway pleasingly in unison as they whisper to one another. And then there’s that lovely smell – there’s little point in trying to describe how a reedbed smells, because it doesn’t really smell like anything else. Plus the excitement of perhaps encountering some rare and elusive wildlife – reedbeds are favourite haunts of Otters, Bitterns, Water Rails, Bearded Tits and Harvest Mice among others.

But even if you don’t see any wildlife, the meditative experience of being out in the marsh is worth the effort alone. Time spent in a reedbed is indisputably time well spent, and a visit to one of the UK’s really big ones – the likes of the Tay Reedbeds, Minsmere, Walberswick and so on – comes very highly recommended. Meanwhile, we’ll make do with some spending time in our own dinky little reedbed.

Later in the week the temperatures picked up substantially, and I was reliably informed that the mercury had reached the dizzy heights of 15^oC on Friday. This made for a disarmingly nice day for early February; if I hadn’t been aware of the date, I might have found myself looking for the year’s first Wheatear / Sand Martin / Bumblebee, as it felt like a proper (whisper it quietly) spring day.

It wasn’t just me either, because at least some of our local wildlife bought into the idea too. We heard our first Mistle Thrush song of the year in the vicinity of Cotehill Loch. These large and rather austere-looking thrushes lack the bright colours and handsome markings of their Scandinavian cousins the Fieldfare and the Redwing, and their song fits their slightly dour image too. The verses are short and succinct, and the tone somewhat desolate and melancholy, sung in the minor key, sounding a bit like a sad Blackbird. Mistle Thrushes have a reputation for singing during winter, often before rough weather – a trait that gives them the old alternative name of Stormcock. Here’s hoping that hearing one isn’t a bad omen of what’s to come!

The Mistle Thrush wasn’t the only songster in action this week. A few of our regulars commented to us that the Skylarks had begun to sing on the finer days. Skylark song is the quintessential sound of the heath at Forvie during spring and summer, and after the dismal winter we’ve all endured, it’s a sound full of promise for better times ahead.

Down at Waterside Wood there’s a spring sound of a different kind. Not in the same league as the song of the Skylark in terms of its musicality, but nonetheless a pleasing and evocative sound in its own way. I’m speaking of the sound of the rookery in the tall Sycamores; this is a relatively recent addition to the Reserve, with the Rooks having moved here when the plantation at Meikle Tarty – their previous colony site – was felled for timber extraction. They’re now an established feature of life at Forvie in the first half of the year.

In some regions of the UK there are old sayings pertaining to Rooks and rookeries, alluding to the birds’ ability to predict the weather for the coming season. The one that I grew up with went along the lines of “When the Rooks build high, it’s going to be dry” – meaning that when the Rooks construct great tall nests in the treetops, we’re likely to get a nice settled summer. In all truth, I expect the Rooks’ massive nests are more likely an insurance policy against the rough weather that we’re more likely to get these days – but who can tell?

On top of all this noise pointing towards the turning of the seasons, there are visual clues as well. The Grey Herons standing sentinel at the loch-sides are beginning to acquire their breeding finery, with long neck-plumes and apricot-coloured bill, and it won’t be long before they join the Rooks in the treetops at Waterside Wood to attend nests of their own.

But surely the most indisputable sign of the impending spring must be the appearance of the first Snowdrops. The second-last stop on the waterfowl census – the Machar Pool, just downstream from the Logie Buchan reedbed – is almost always where we see our first ones of the year. Right enough, this year was no exception.

Sadly, not all our wildlife is full of the joys just yet. We were called off-site on Thursday to investigate a report of several dead Guillemots washed up at Peterhead harbour, a few miles to the north of Forvie. After a bit of searching we found the birds in question, donned PPE and took samples for laboratory analysis, in order to ascertain whether the dreaded avian ‘flu was at work. But in all honesty, this looked to all intents and purposes like a starvation event. All the birds we handled were painfully thin, and it’s likely that recent storm events have made it difficult for them to feed.

Backing up the starvation theory has been the sighting of live Guillemots in some odd places recently, such as on the upper estuary by Waulkmill hide. Seabirds don’t usually come into inshore waters of their own volition, and it’s often a sign of starvation, disease or some other ill fortune. Here’s hoping we don’t see a widespread die-off in the coming weeks; seabirds have a tough life at the best of times, and the events of recent years (avian ‘flu, climate change, failure of fish stocks, etc) have made their lives even harder. Who’d be a seabird in 2024?

On a brighter note, the improvement in the weather (hope I’ve not spoken too soon there) has allowed the footpath construction works to commence between Rockend and Hackley Bay. This had hitherto been delayed by the weather (a mixture of hard frost and gales), so we’ll keep everything crossed for a decent few weeks to allow our specialist contractor to work his magic.

Lastly, Danny took advantage of the unseasonably fine day we had on Friday to head down to Newburgh and engage with beach-goers on the subject of seals. He was able to set up a telescope on the south side of the Ythan mouth, affording lucky visitors some brilliant views of the haul-out at 30x magnification, and in ideal light conditions too. This was a great opportunity to reinforce the ‘responsible viewing’ message – one that is of paramount importance not just for Forvie’s seals, but for all the wildlife that calls the Reserve home.

So on the whole, a very agreeable week – notwithstanding the odd spell of rain and high winds here and there (it is still officially winter after all, for another four weeks at least). And to be fair, the not-so-nice days at this time of year are ideal for tackling those deadly boring admin tasks. Every cloud and all that…