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…

Last week saw the 265th anniversary of the birth of Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns. Oor Rabbie is known, remembered and celebrated worldwide as an outstanding and prolific composer of verse, a writer and collector of folk songs, a good drinker, a bad farmer, and a bit of a ladies’ man (I reserve the right to mild understatement here). This is all common knowledge, but in addition, many folk may have missed the fact that he was also a pretty decent naturalist to boot.

One source reckoned that his works referenced upwards of 40 different species of birds, for instance. Another estimated that he had written 118 separate poems on the theme of nature, though many more besides contain passing references to wildlife. He clearly knew and recognised many of the species that inhabited the countryside where he lived and worked: Aiks and Birks (Oak and Birch trees), Fummarts and Maukins (Polecats and Hares), Gleads and Paitricks (Red Kites and Grey Partridges) all rated a mention at one point or another. As well as many, many more besides. When it came to natural history knowledge, Burns was a good all-rounder.

Impressively, this was in the late 18th Century, an age before you could point your smart phone at something and get it to identify what you’re looking at, or look it up on Google (other search engines are of course available), or even check out a field guide. I’d venture to say Burns probably didn’t have a decent pair of binoculars either. His field skills would have been honed the old-fashioned way – careful and thoughtful observation, combined with knowledge passed down the generations by word of mouth. This was much the same way I learned the basics when I was growing up, more than 200 years down the line (and there ends any similarity with the great man himself).

Of course, the Scotland that Burns knew would have looked very different to the Scotland that we know today. Huge changes have taken place in the interim with regard to agriculture and general land use, development, transport and population (there are four times as many people in Scotland today than when Burns was alive, for example). Although the population back then was far smaller, more people would have made their living directly from the land, as did Burns during his rather unsuccessful career in agriculture. Consequently people would have had much closer links with their surroundings, and the other creatures inhabiting those surroundings, than most of us do today.

There would undoubtedly have been a lot more wildlife, and wild land, in Scotland during Robert Burns’ lifetime than that which we have in 2024. But for a’ that, Burns was still acutely aware of the pressures applied to nature by humanity. In his well-known and much-loved ‘To a Mouse’, penned in the year 1785, he writes:

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An’ fellow-mortal!

For my money, this verse proves that Rabbie was way ahead of his time. ‘Man’s dominion has broken Nature’s social union’ – wow. And this was in 1785! I often wonder what he would have made of 21st Century Scotland, specifically the state of nature and our relationship with it. I suspect he may have ended up seeking solace in gude ales and bonnie lassies.

My point here is that our difficult relationship with nature is nothing new. The difference between the 1780s and the 2020s is that we are more powerful than ever, in terms of exerting control and influence over the natural world. Technology, medicine, agriculture and sheer weight of numbers combine to give us, in Burns’ words, dominion over nature. But we’re also more knowledgeable than ever about the problems facing the planet, problems of our own making. It’s now up to us how we use this knowledge and power.

On the Reserve lately I have heard many grumbles about the wildlife getting the rough end of the stick; these are nothing new either. People out on the mudflats at low tide, preventing the wading-birds from feeding in sub-zero conditions. Dogs running amok, chasing the Roe Deer and flushing roosting birds off the lochs and estuary. Seals getting disturbed by over-curious beach-goers. Wildlife getting buzzed by drones. The list goes on. The recurring theme is a lack of consideration for the other species that share our environment. Surely a National Nature Reserve deserves a bit more respect than that?

However, all of these things are within our power as individuals to change. Our behaviours when outdoors, particularly in sensitive and important areas for wildlife, can have far-reaching consequences. We may not think that our own actions matter that much; after all, I’m just one person in seven billion, so what difference does it make? Well, that’s just it – often the problem is the cumulative effect. You might not think it’s a big problem if your dog flushes all the ducks off the creek, but when everyone else’s dog does the same, throughout the day – every day – the combined effect can be disastrous. But if everyone considered this sort of thing, and acted accordingly, the problem could be solved. You, as the individual, have the power to change things.

Nature conservation has always been an uphill struggle, but some brilliant minds have taken up the challenge down the years, many of whom were way ahead of the curve: Peter Scott, Aldo Leopold, Bert Axell, et al. Robert Burns perhaps deserves honourable mention as a proto-conservationist too, one who showed compassion towards his ‘fellow mortals’ of whatever species – even the aforementioned mouse, which then, as now, would have been considered ‘vermin’ by many people.

Maybe we should all channel our inner Rabbie in this respect, and together we might make the world a better place for nature and humanity alike. I’ll drink to that.

Last week, after what had generally been a mild, wet and indifferent season up to this point, winter finally arrived with all its mates. A bitter northerly airflow brought with it several days of snow and ice, leading to the usual mayhem of blocked roads, closed schools and transport cancellations across much of Scotland. Here in the north-east we had our share of all the fun and excitement, and our neighbours in the village of Collieston were quick to get out and about with their sledges and cross-country skis. With a warming climate, we can go entire winters nowadays without a significant snowfall, so weeks like this are to be savoured – just as long as you don’t need to travel far.

Forvie is arguably at its most photogenic in conditions such as these. The white of the snow and the dark colours of the winter heath combine to create a monochrome world of high contrast, almost unreal-looking in its stark beauty. All the colour is reserved for the sky above, in various combinations of powder-blue, rose-gold, silver and pink, with towering snow clouds catching the low winter sun. For a short while the Reserve looks like a giant art installation – but admission is free, and you can make up your own mind about any perceived hidden meanings behind its aesthetics, if that’s your sort of thing. (Or you can just enjoy the views.)

Mornings and evenings are always the best time to appreciate this sort of thing, and with the days being relatively short just now, both dawn and dusk are easily accessible without having to get up early or stay out late. Being crepuscular is much easier in January than it is in June.

The snow may look bonny to those of us who have the benefit of heated homes and an assured food supply, but spare a thought for those who don’t. Most of our wildlife falls very definitely into the latter category, and the past week will have been a struggle for many. Here on the coast, we witnessed a huge cold-weather movement of birds heading southwards, in search of feeding grounds free of snow and ice. Thrushes were the most prominent, with thousands of Fieldfares and Redwings on the move, and smaller (yet still impressive) movements of Skylarks and various finches tagging along.

As well as the constant stream of birds passing overhead, these hard-weather refugees could also be found on the ground wherever there was a break in the snow cover. Waterside Wood, for instance, was alive with Redwings, with over 200 raking around in the leaf-litter beneath the trees. This was a rare opportunity to get a good look at these usually shy and wary little thrushes, emboldened as they were by cold and hunger. We were careful to observe them without causing any unnecessary disturbance; in conditions like these, such things can be the difference between life and death.

Many gardens in our neighbouring villages of Collieston and Newburgh were invaded by raiding-parties of Fieldfares. Usually found foraging for invertebrates on pasture and ploughland, these hardy birds switch their attentions to fruit in times like these, when the snow effectively cuts them off from their usual food.

These are big, colourful, handsomely-marked thrushes, and a joy to observe, if a little bad-tempered – they pull rank over the resident Blackbirds when it comes to claiming feeding-rights. We had one take up residence in our backie – as often happens these days when the weather turns cold – and he wasn’t for sharing the fruit scattered on the lawn. Our resident male Blackbird wasn’t impressed, and had to settle for second place in the pecking order. But I guess the Fieldfare probably claimed the moral high ground having flown here from Sweden, whereas the Blackbird has had an easy life getting fed grapes from the hand. Move over, sunshine, this food is mine!

Any soft fruit will do for these hungry wanderers; windfall apples are a particular favourite. Here at HQ, though, a shortage of apples meant that the lucky so-and-sos were getting Conference pears instead. Now that’s a treat worth crossing the North Sea for.

A hike around the Dune Trail to carry out a quarterly inspection of some of the infrastructure coincided with a couple of heavy snow showers. Visibility was soon reduced to almost zero, and we were grateful to be out on foot and not in the car. Though the car heater would have been nice, right enough.

Up at the viewpoint overlooking the ternery, the wind was blowing and drifting the snow in all directions. Unfortunately it had hitherto been doing the same with the sand, and the signs that Mark and I dug out and reinstated last winter have been getting shorter and shorter as the sand gets deeper and deeper. There’s another job to add to the ‘to do’ list.

On continuing around the Dune Trail we reached the beach, by which time the offending snow shower was receding distantly into Aberdeen Bay. A covering of snow lay right down to the strand-line; I always feel that snow on the beach has a strangely incongruous look.

Despite the offshore wind, a few interesting bits and pieces had washed up on the beach. A number of Sea Gooseberries were scattered along the strand-line, looking like little glass beads twinkling in the sunlight. These curious-looking creatures, about the size and shape of a marble but rather squidgier, are in fact a species of comb-jelly. Commonly found throughout the North Sea, we tend to see them washed ashore along the beach and estuary during summer and autumn.

More interesting still was this fascinating little fish. None of us here had ever seen one like it before, so a bit of research was required in order to identify it. As it happened, this was quite straightforward due to its distinctive appearance with that big eye, pouty little mouth, spiny fins and red colouration. Turns out that this is a Boarfish, a demersal (seabed-dwelling) species that lives at depths of up to 700 metres. Quite how it came to wash up on Forvie beach, on a shallowly-shelving coast, is a mystery.

However it got here, it gifted me the opportunity to feature a fish in the blog – an excruciatingly rare occurrence in itself. I often get the guilts about under-representing certain elements of Forvie’s flora and fauna in these pages, usually for the simple reason that we don’t usually come into contact with them. Things that live underwater or underground – and that includes a huge proportion of life on planet earth – simply aren’t accessible to most of us, and consequently we are ignorant of their very existence. That’s why we often find ourselves preoccupied with the things that are obvious – like birds, butterflies, flowering plants. But that’s no excuse for neglecting the more cryptic stuff.

As Reserve staff, we pride ourselves in being jacks-of-all-trades and having a wide-ranging knowledge and skills base. But there’s so much that we don’t know. If you want to make one of us feel inadequate, ask us a question about mosses, or annelid worms, or zooplankton. All these things deserve our attention – and blog space – but the truth is we just don’t have the chops. I won’t consider myself a decent naturalist until I can identify all the lichens on the heath (for example), not just the birds feeding among them. Ho hum!

Anyway, in an attempt to move the conversation away from our shortcomings, here’s another bonny picture of the Reserve in the snow with which to finish things up. Hope you can forgive me – at least until next week’s instalment.

It’s always a relief to get through the first working week of the year, following the long lay-off over the festive period. A lot can happen in the space of a couple of weeks’ leave, and we often feel a little apprehensive upon switching on our work phones and laptops, wondering what excitement, mayhem or disaster may have unfolded in our absence. This time around, however, all we seemed to have missed was more and more rain.

Most winters at Forvie see a degree of flooding on the heath. With the terrain being generally low-lying and undulating, water tends to collect in the hollows and dune-slacks, and the lack of warmth means very little evaporation takes place. Thus we can see areas of standing water persisting until the spring, providing excellent habitat for wetland invertebrates and waterbirds, and enhancing the biological diversity of the Reserve and wider area. It also makes for an attractive scene under a winter sky, and a beautiful backdrop for an invigorating walk – just as long as your footwear is up to the job.

With the substrate here being composed almost entirely of sand, you could be forgiven for thinking it ought to be free-draining. However, life is seldom as straightforward as it should be, and Forvie’s hydrology is no exception. Here, an underlying layer of boulder clay complicates matters considerably. A chemical reaction between the clay and the sea-salt in the overlying sand releases ochre, an iron compound that also serves as a very effective drain-blocker. Thus water sits in areas where you think it shouldn’t, and disappears and reappears seemingly at random in a series of sinks and springs.

This is all immensely frustrating when you’re trying to maintain ditches and drains, but brilliant for creating wetland habitat in what would otherwise be a relatively arid environment. Moreover, ochre is what gives the Forvie staff their long-lasting and highly attractive fake tan during the ditching season. We may sometimes look as if we’ve been holidaying in the Med, when in reality we’ve been up to our oxters in the Mealy Burn.

Of course, the down side of all the floodwater is that the trails are difficult to traverse just now in anything less than wellie boots. Many of our paths, especially the outer part of the Heath Trail, trace a path through the hillocks and vegetated dunes, following the flattest and easiest walking route. This is also the lowest-lying ground, and consequently acts as a conduit for floodwater too. Water and people alike always choose the route of least resistance.

In one flooded slack, we wondered briefly whether Jaws was at large, with a dark shape protruding ominously from the water’s surface. However, closer inspection rather disappointingly revealed that it was just one of our trail waymarkers, or at least a very small part thereof. For comparison’s sake, the second photo below shows the same waymarker in the previous winter. But none of us have ever seen the water level as high as it is just now.

Just occasionally, the rain has let up and the skies have cleared sufficiently for a brief interlude of sunshine. After approximately seven months of near-continuous rain and cloud, this can feel a little alien to say the least. However, even on the better days it’s generally not been long until a rainbow appears, heralding the arrival of another shower to top up the floodwaters yet again.

The occasional clear night has produced sharp frosts in between the rain fronts, and one such night early last week saw the freshwater lochs of North Forvie largely frozen over.

While Cotehill Loch froze almost in its entirety, Sand Loch retained a reasonable area of open water, and consequently remained busy with waterfowl. Among the usual Mallards, Coots, Tufted Ducks and Wigeon, an interloper has recently taken up residence. A Red-necked Grebe – a scarce waterbird from central and eastern Europe – appeared on Sand Loch on New Year’s Day, and at the time of writing was still present and correct, and looking quite at home. These are never plentiful in Scotland, and as such ‘our’ grebe has been attracting a lot of attention from birdwatchers and photographers. Catriona did pretty well to capture the following photo during a rare period of sunshine…

…before top naturalist and wildlife photographer Ron Macdonald showed us all how it was done!

The other celebrity waterbird to grace the Reserve was a fine drake Green-winged Teal, who spent a few days on Cotehill Loch before being frozen off by the weather and heading up the road to nearby Meikle Loch. Green-winged Teal is the North American counterpart to ‘our’ European Teal, and looks very similar, but for the arrangement of the white stripes on the body. While ‘our’ Teal has a horizontal white stripe along its flank, so the Green-winged Teal has a vertical stripe down the side of his chest instead – viz the following photo…

The photos above and below weren’t actually taken at Cotehill, but were snapped on the estuary two winters previously. Ducks are relatively long-lived birds, and it’s not unknown for vagrants to return to the same wintering areas (albeit in the wrong country, or even the wrong continent) year after year. So I’m excusing myself for using these ‘archive’ photos on the basis that it could actually be the same individual. Many such individuals acquire names, such as Elvis the King Eider, and latterly his successor Charlie. Following in these proud traditions, and making the wild assumption that he is indeed the same individual returning to us, I give you Jim-Bob the Green-winged Teal.

The last item in this week’s blog was actually the first duty of the working year for us. Danny returned to work on Saturday 6th January, and was met by a massive fallen Sitka Spruce across the track at Waterside, clearly a victim of the high winds over the festive period. However, it was Monday 8th before Catriona and I – Forvie’s two qualified chainsaw operators – were back to the grindstone. So after two weeks of fine food, copious pints of beer and spectacular levels of physical inactivity, we were thrown back in at the deep end when we returned to work.

There’s nothing quite like a morning’s chainsawing and shifting timber to remind you of just how unfit you are after the holidays. And although it probably felt like harder work than it actually was, we were relieved to get the job finished and the track reopened. In the coming weeks we’ll have some more forestry work to do here, with several trees having tipped over on their root-plates in the wind, which will hopefully help to lick us into shape before the long haul of the spring and summer season on the Reserve.

Note the low resolution of the photo above – this is a deliberate attempt to hide the sweat and general decrepitude of the bloke in the photo. In keeping with this week’s watery theme, a hot bath was the order of the evening thereafter. In this instance, in fact, it was nothing less than a necessity.

Nevertheless, that’s week one negotiated – onwards and upwards!

Happy New Year folks! We hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and will continue to have a fantastic New Year!

Before I get onto the blog, just a bit of subject-related housekeeping. I know that I’ve already spoken to many of our visitors over the weekend about this, but since last Wednesday, a huge fallen Sitka Spruce tree has been blocking the path by the Information Hub, at the end of Waterside Wood. Storm Henk is the culprit for this (and the reasons behind the increased frequency of our winter storms will form the main subject matter of today’s blog). The fallen spruce tree has dragged some barbed wire down from the fence it fell through, which I’ve marked with brightly coloured tape to make it more visible and hopefully a bit safer. There is also fencing wire on the ground directly beneath the visible barbed wire, which I’ve covered in branches for now. Even as you read this blog, I imagine Catriona and Daryl will be chainsawing the tree into smaller pieces. It should all be cleared this week, but this is a huge job and not work for the faint-hearted!

Storm Henk, which swept through the UK on the 2nd January 2024 is one of eight storms which have ravaged the UK since the beginning of autumn, with Storm Agnes being the first named on the 25th of September. Storm Babet is probably still fresh in our memories, especially for completely transforming the coastline in our locale, cutting huge sand cliffs through the dunes along various beaches such as Newburgh, Cruden Bay and on the reserve itself. You may remember that the storm forced us to re-dig the sand ramp required for our truck’s access to the beach. Storm Henk pummelled Southwest England and South Wales especially, but had hard-hitting impacts across the UK. Gusts of 94mph were recorded on the Isle of Wight, winds which you’d probably expect on the top of Cairngorm Mountain from time to time, but not necessarily on the south coast.

Only one week before, Storm Gerrit was responsible for 40,000 homes losing power in Scotland (my own included!) and disruption to roads and rail services as blizzards blocked higher parts of the A9, landslides and fallen trees brought rail services across the north and east to a grinding halt and 6 people had to be rescued from vehicles submerged in flood water in Banchory. Flooding is affecting the reserve itself, you may have noticed that many of the paths near Waterside have become particularly waterlogged and may take some days to subside.

There are even extreme examples happening more frequently, like the mini tornado which swept through Greater Manchester, damaging about 100 properties and leaving thousands of homes there without power. Climate change is thought to be increasing the severity and frequency of our winter storms and this trend is set to continue in the coming decades.
So, why are we seeing more storms?

It’s no secret that our planet’s temperature is rising due to climate change and changing weather patterns. More and more scientists are starting to see the effects of man-made greenhouse gas emissions on the planet’s climate. This is leading to an increase in the number and severity of tropical storms along the equator – hurricanes in the U.S. and Caribbean, cyclones in Australia and even typhoons in Southeast Asia. In the UK we’re affected by extra tropical storms, which are less affected by the ocean’s temperature. Climate change is expected to cause a shift in the tracks or paths of these extra tropical storms, meaning some areas of the UK will become more stormy while others will become less affected.

As evaporation increases, moisture accumulates in the atmosphere, resulting in a natural increase in rainfall. Warmer air has a greater capacity to hold moisture, leading to higher amounts of precipitation. This excess rain can lead to flooding and is also linked to rising sea levels. Storm surges are caused by these extreme weather conditions and have been seen in recent years with events such as Storm Dennis and Storm Ciara, two very powerful storms, which hit the UK in February 2020. These storms can be traced back to the formation of a strong front, which is formed when high pressure separates air masses with differing characteristics. In the case of the UK, this front brings cold air from the north Atlantic while warm air is drawn up from the south.

The stark temperature difference between the Atlantic causes storms to arise along the front where hot and cold air meet and mix, in search of equilibrium. Our recent winters have seen a series of intense low-pressure systems originating from the Atlantic due to the powerful high-altitude jet stream. In essence, the jet stream is a core of strong winds in the tropopause, the area between the troposphere and the stratosphere, around 5 to 7 miles above the Earth’s surface, blowing from west to east. When combined with strong winds, also driven by this temperature contrast, it results in heavy rainfall and gusty conditions throughout certain areas of the UK.

Instead of constantly worrying about whether storms in the UK will become more energetic or not, it’s important to recognize that storm tracks will shift and this will have an impact on our coastal areas. While some regions may experience increased storm activity, others may see a decrease. Additionally, there is uncertainty about in which direction these changes will occur, as predicted by climate models. The key point is that climate will change and we need to be prepared for its effects. This means taking action to mitigate flooding, which has become a major issue in recent years with frequent floods causing damage to thousands of properties annually.

The Climate Coalition suggests implementing more natural drainage systems instead of constantly raising sea and river defences. Human activities such as erosion and development have also contributed to the problem by removing natural buffers like soil and green spaces. To increase resilience against future flooding we need to create more places for water to slow down and be stored. This can be achieved by expanding habitats like forests, wetlands, and salt marshes. Essentially, we need to restore natural features that were previously present before human interference took place. It’s time for us to make the conscious decision to take action towards a more sustainable future, before it’s too late.

Coming back to our fallen tree. Sadly, in this particular case, it will have to be chopped up and cleared off the path. But these casualties of our stormy weather can be a bonus to woodland by creating clearings and opportunities for new regeneration. If left alone, fallen trees can serve as a home for various living beings, during the process of decay, such as invertebrates, birds, mammals, reptiles, and amphibians. Additionally, the decomposed exterior of the tree offers a suitable environment for the growth of fungus, moss and lichen. As John Keats once wrote, “The poetry of earth is never dead…”.