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…”.

If I’ve managed to work out the vagaries of scheduling things correctly, this blog will come out on 31st December. Not that we’d expect anyone to read it on that day – it’s Hogmanay, after all, and most people will hopefully be having a happy and possibly tipsy Happy Hoggers (the staff certainly will). But it’s a good time to reflect on what the year brought to the reserve.

The start of the year was a fairly normal one, wildlife-wise, with the usual waders on the estuary and all the ducks starting to display to one another. Down at the mouth of the estuary, a fair bit of sand had been eroded by the weather over the course of the winter, making for some impressive sand cliffs. But dynamic dunes are a big part of what Forvie’s all about!

You may have seen a tractor out and about on the estuary early in the year. This was part of the Scottish Water clear-up of plastic biofilters, which escaped from Ellon Waste Water Treatment Works in flooding the previous November. Our thanks go to the clear-up teams and the many volunteers who helped pick up these items. Unfortunately, these are still washing up and will be with us for some time to come, but SW have removed them from the water treatment system until they can ensure future escapes will be prevented.

Early spring is when the seal numbers peak at the estuary mouth. This year, we counted over 3000 grey seals right at the end of February, representing one of the highest counts of these we’ve ever had. The seals here have been a real success story, with numbers building over the years…but more on that at the end!

In March, the beach at Collieston, next to the reserve, had a leviathan of the deep washed up, in the form of a dead, 6-foot-long conger eel. To date, it’s been one of our most popular FB posts (along with a picture of the truck, proving we’ll never second-guess social media). While relatively common off our coasts, even divers rarely see a whole conger eel (usually they’re just a head poking out of a hole) so it was a chance for lots of people to see a creature they’d never seen before.

March also marked the erection of the tern fences and the return of the first birds to the breeding colony. Our first black-headed gulls returned to the colony in mid- March and were followed by the Sandwich terns shortly afterwards. By April, both of these species had laid eggs and were sitting on them before the Common, Arctic and Little terns returned.

As with last year, the breeding season took place against the backdrop of HPAI, or bird flu, ravaging seabird populations in the North Sea. While gannets weren’t badly hit this year, kittiwakes and auks were, with large numbers washing up along the coast. At the ternery here, everything was going well until the second week of June, when we suddenly started to notice high numbers of dead or dying birds. Sampling confirmed what we suspected- it was bird flu – and it was a difficult time for staff, watching the birds die while being unable to help. However, it wasn’t all doom and gloom with the birds getting at least some young fledged.

Due to their earlier breeding date, the black-headed gulls avoided the worst impact of bird flu and actually had a record year on the site. The 2428 pairs were the most we’ve ever counted here and represent nearly a quarter of the Scottish population (so no pressure then). The 1353 fledged young were also a new site record.

Meanwhile the Sandwich terns had 903 pairs, fledging 196 young. There were 739 pairs of Arctic tern and 130 pairs of Common tern , fledging 464 young between them (these are counted together as the young as very difficult to tell apart. Our rarest tern, Little Tern, had 11 pairs fledging 11 young.

So, while the season wasn’t a complete disaster, there was still a high butcher’s bill due to bird flu. After the birds had finished breeding, we counted the corpses and, between the ternery and the beach, there were over 2000 dead birds from 11 different species on the southern part of the reserve. Mortality was particularly high in young Sandwich terns and we reckoned around 15% of the adult breeding population of Arctic tern were found dead within the colony- so this won’t account for casualties out to sea. We desperately hope these birds can bounce back next year.

We also had a first for the reserve, with the first-known breeding attempt of Mediterranean gulls in Scotland. While the ‘Meds’ as they became known, didn’t fledge chicks, it will be interesting to see if this attempt was a one-off or if it marks the start of the colonisation of Scotland by this species. We hear a lot about the alleged ‘gull menace’ in cities, but the truth is that every gull species in the UK except Mediterranean gull is in sharp decline.

While the Meds were a first for the reserve, it seemed a familiar face had returned in May. The Return of the King…aye, King eider, that is….or was it? Close inspection of pictures revealed that the King wasn’t ‘Elvis’ who had been returning here since 2010, it was his successor, the 2 year old ‘Charlie’, who had been overwintering off the Fife coast. Either way, this is a bird its always a huge pleasure to see…unless you’re a female eider duck, who were seriously not impressed by his orange forehead and best displays. I’m afraid one of the highlights of my year was seeing him face-planting down a sand dune after an over-enthusiastic attempt to impress the ladies.

Away from the birds, summer in full swing marks our busiest time for visitors. Our events programme was been really popular this year, with over 400 people attending various events, from fun days to beach cleans to seal watches. Our thanks go to our partner organisations who have run these alongside us and include East Grampian Coastal Partnership, Police Scotland, Aberdeenshire Council Ranger Service and Buglife.

Our thanks also to our volunteer team, who help with…well, everything….and keep us sane during the summer months. They are invaluable in helping fence and protect the ternery, carry out survey work, do beach cleans, or just generally do what’s needed on the reserve.

Summer is also the time when the reserve arguably looks at its best, with a plethora of wildflowers in bloom or insects on the wing. The dune slacks are yellow with bird’s-foot trefoil, beloved of common blue butterflies. But our commonest butterflies are usually the dark-green fritillaries, which love the patches of marsh thistle that grow in the dunes.

But, summer can’t last forever and we must confess, we do breath a sigh of relief when the bird breeding season is over. Before you know it, the wader numbers on the estuary start to pick up as early or failed breeders reappear on their way south.

Then it’s the geese, and the whoopers, honking and trumpeting their way south.

Then it’s ‘named storm’ season. The big one this year was Babet, in October, a 3-day screaming easterly. As regular readers will know, Daryl is always lamenting the lack of east wind but boy, did this one deliver! Huge seas carved great chunks off the beach and exposed the myriad of sand mason worm burrows at the Ythan mouth. They also made it impossible for us to access the beach with the truck for several weeks until the sand cliff eroded into a shallower slope.

Also in October, we had the unexpected message there was a newly-born seal pup on the beach. This caught everyone by surprise as, while we’ve had the odd pup in previous years, it’s never been before late November. Then there was another pup…and another…what was going on? Although it’s a bit early to say for sure, we do wonder if this marks the start of Forvie becoming a major pupping site. We quickly popped up signs directing people away from the seals to protect the young pups and our thanks go to everyone who respect these and avoid scaring the seals. There were still pups being born in mid -December so we will be watching this situation closely and see what future years bring.

The latter part of the year is also when we do all those boring-but-necessary jobs that no-one would ever notice until they don’t get done. Pathwork, ditching, repairing signs and report writing…all that sort of thing. We’re well through it now but will be taking a well-earned break over the festive period…all the better to come back refreshed and do it all again next year!

All the best for 2024 folks, and do say hi if you see us out on the reserve!

“So, are you all set for Christmas then?” I lose count of the number of times recently I’ve been asked this question, or at least a variation upon it. The given answer is usually a qualified ‘yes’, while crossing my fingers behind my back – just in case any issues, disasters or unplanned work come up in the meantime and plunge everything into chaos. All things being even though, the last working week of the year is all about tying up loose ends, completing outstanding tasks, and hopefully leaving the Reserve in a state of reasonable order prior to the festive break.

Amid the miscellany of pre-holiday tasks and preparations, the week also contained a significant milestone in the year. Thursday 21st was the shortest day of 2023 – and a huge relief for many folk, as from this point onwards, of course, the days will begin to lengthen once again. At our 57-point-some degrees north, this seasonal change is particularly acutely felt, and there have been a few overcast days lately where it’s felt like it never got light. Believe it or not, the photo below was taken as I walked home from the office for my lunchbreak on one such day at about half past noon, and it already looked like the sun was setting.

Having said that, there has been the occasional fine day (or half-day at least) among the gloom and dross. Tuesday of last week was a case in point, so the on-duty staff duly made the best of it and got out on site. At this time of the year, and at this latitude, vitamin D is a precious commodity!

During some of the preceding dreich days, we had taken the opportunity to refurbish the Rockend ‘weather salmon’. This had spent the summer in our workshop while we attended to the more pressing duties of the season. Winter on the Reserve is a time for catching up with outstanding items of estate work, and this job was no exception.

The ‘weather salmon’ carries with it a good deal of history. Many years ago, it was the wind-vane for the salmon-fishing station on the beach at Rockend. It remained standing long after the station had ceased working and fallen into ruin, and other than the roofless stone walls of the old bothy, it was the only remaining evidence of this important aspect of Forvie’s human history. Then in 2007, after one last gale, it finally fell down, and that was that. Except it wasn’t – and its story didn’t end there.

At the time, we decided that the ‘weather fish’ provided an interesting and poignant reminder of Forvie’s past, as well as being a useful marker for the point where the Dune Trail joins the beach. Consequently it was decided to try and reinstate it, and give it a new lease of life. After all, the most important element of it – the salmon itself, cut from plywood and painted with black bitumen – had survived the fall intact, and could be restored. The rest of the structure was subsequently built out of rubbish – an old scaffolding pole, some scraps of plywood, some fencing timber, a bit of water-pipe and an assortment of mismatched screws and fixings – and bolted onto a fence post on the high dune where the original version had once stood. The only expense to the taxpayer was a tin of paint and a day of my time.

Back in 2007, I was working a six-month contract at the Reserve, and had no idea that I would still be around sixteen years later when the thing wore out and needed refurbished once more. Funny how things come around and go around!

The rebuild again stuck to the principle of ‘no expense expended’ – or more to the point, the principle of ‘reduce, re-use, recycle’ (Forvie staff are quite old-school in this respect, and we pride ourselves in nothing being wasted or unnecessarily consumed). Once complete, the aforementioned fine Tuesday then provided the ideal opportunity to put the thing back up again before the holidays.

This done, the Rockend skyline had once again regained its salmon – which will hopefully be good for another sixteen years standing sentinel over the site of the fishing-station at least. I’m very much hoping to be still around by the time it needs its next refit!

With fine days such as this having been painfully scarce of late, the opportunity was taken to mop up a few other odd jobs out on site – a rare pleasure with the weather not actively trying to kill us. These jobs typified the pre-holiday tying-up of loose ends to which I referred earlier on. Like giving the ‘black tern’ – our waymarker at the south-east corner of the Dune Trail – a quick coat of paint (though looking at the state of the plywood tern, it too will need a full refit before too long)…

…as well as checking the Dune Trail interpretation boxes were all present and correct (these can, and do, occasionally get buried by drifting sand)…

…and picking up a truckload of beach rubbish from the old bothy. This had been collected from the beach and stacked up at the bothy for us by a kindly local resident, for which we are extremely grateful. We couldn’t hope to keep on top of beach litter by ourselves – it would literally be a full-time job in itself – so it’s brilliant to have the help and support of our visitors and volunteers in this respect. Thank you all!

Sadly – and predictably – Tuesday’s fine weather wasn’t to last, and by Wednesday we were back to the usual diet of leaden skies and persistent rain. This made the last waterfowl census of the year a bit of a miserable exercise, with fogged-up lenses and sodden clothing the order of the day.

Having said that, the spectacle remained impressive, with a four-figure flock of Golden Plover on the Sleek of Tarty providing some aerobatic entertainment. This was set to a lovely backing track of ‘plover music’, with their individual musical whistles merging into a soft and tuneful burble.

Even on such a dull and sullen day, the ducks were still looking magnificent, their colours lighting up the grey scene of the estuary. These ranged from the chestnut, butter-cream and green of the drake Teal…

…to the porcelain finery and pastel shades of the Eiders, and among them the coal-and-candlelight plumage of a Long-tailed Duck. Winter ducks are one of the pleasures of this season for sure; this is when they are looking their absolute best.

Thursday then produced a full-on gale, with windspeeds up to 70mph and some nasty squally showers into the bargain too. This annoyingly delayed the helicopter airlift, by which 100 tons of stone were due to be shifted onto the coast path south of Hackley Bay. This is a now-familiar routine to locals and regular visitors, and remains the only viable means of getting materials out onto the more remote parts of the Reserve. However, the airlift, and thereafter the actual path construction, will now have to wait until the New Year.

With most of the loose ends thus tied up, all that remains to be done before being de-mobbed for the holidays is to wish everyone – readers, visitors, volunteers, friends and colleagues alike – a happy and healthy festive period. From all of us at the Reserve, have a good one and we’ll see you again soon!

In spring 2020, we featured an article on this blog about ‘micro-patching’: extreme garden birdwatching. At this point we were all spending rather a lot of time at home, with the first coronavirus lockdown having just come into force. Thankfully those days are long behind us – but with the festive break fast approaching, it’s likely that many of us will again be spending more time than usual at home over the next couple of weeks. This therefore seems like a good opportunity to revisit the same theme, extolling the virtues of wildlife-watching from the comfort of your own home, and updating the stories we started telling in 2020. Throw another log on that fire.

Back in 2020, we were stuck at home because we were legally obliged to do so: a public health crisis was unfolding, and we all had to take action in order to stave it off. For many people, a monotonous daily routine was enlivened considerably by observing the wildlife present around their homes on a daily basis. Lots of folk – your author included – got totally hooked, and for some, this daily connection with nature provided a psychological lifeline at a difficult time.

Fast-forward nearly four years, and mercifully the coronavirus crisis is a memory, receding into the distance in the rear-view mirror. Unfortunately for many folk, however, there remain plenty of other stressors to negotiate in their daily lives. The looming climate and biodiversity crises threatening our very existence; the perennial tragedies of war and famine; the ongoing cost-of-living squeeze; the relentless pace and hideous complexity of 21st-century life. We live in a strange and hard-to-fathom age for sure. But the connection with nature that many of us discovered (or redoubled) in 2020 can, and does, provide the relief so desperately needed by so many people – your author included.

In my case, the wildlife around my home has assumed a far greater role in my life than I could ever have anticipated. When we moved into our little house back in 2009, the garden was nothing more than an afterthought. Now, fourteen years on, it’s the centre of my world as a wildlife enthusiast, keen birder, and resident of planet earth. It’s kept me sane (relatively speaking), it’s made me laugh and cry and use copious expletives, and it’s continually exceeded my expectations as a naturalist. I would even say it’s changed my outlook. And above all, it’s reinforced a connection with nature that I will carry with me forever.

One of the real joys of garden wildlife-watching is that it’s a rare guilt-free pleasure. There’s no travelling required, which is a boon at at time when our individual ‘carbon footprints’ are under increasing scrutiny (and rightly so). The other corresponding benefit is that it costs nothing. Looking out of the window is one of the few things you can do that isn’t metered, or subject to inflation!

If you’re lucky enough to have a garden of your own, this brings with it the opportunity to give something back to nature. That something can take any number of different forms. Put up a bird feeder (or several). Install a nesting box or a bug hotel (or several). Leave a pile of hedge cuttings in a quiet corner for the minibeasts. Leave a bit of grass unmown for insects. Provide water, whether a full-blown pond or an upturned dustbin lid. Plant a tree or shrub (or several). Cultivate some flowers for pollinators. Plant native species rather than exotics. The list goes on, but none of these items need be expensive, or time-consuming, or requiring of vast amounts of space. And the return-on-investment can be extraordinary.

Our own garden here on the edge of the Reserve is a case in point. As a 1930s council-house garden, it is neither vast nor grand. But as a blank canvas when we moved in, it had some potential. Eventually we ended up doing most of the things on the list above, and the results have blown even my most optimistic predictions out the water. Despite being relatively well-travelled, I have experienced some of my best and most treasured moments with nature right here on my own patch.

The birding side of things alone has been a revelation. Back in 2009 when we moved in, if you’d told me what species we would go on to record on our tiny patch of ground, I’d have thought you were pulling my leg. Waxwing; Siberian Chiffchaff; Yellow-browed, Greenish, Dusky, Barred and Icterine Warblers; Common Rosefinch; Red-breasted Flycatcher; Rose-coloured Starling: these are the stuff of fantasy, only seen by proper serious birder types on remote and far-flung islands. But all have occurred here outside the window. There are two take-home messages here for the would-be garden birder: 1) plant as many trees and shrubs as your plot will allow, and 2) always keep your eyes and ears open. It can happen on your patch.

Besides the thrill of the occasional rarity dropping in, there also is the delight of the everyday. Butterflies attending the Valerian in late summer. Frogs snoring and burbling in the pond at dusk. A full moth trap the morning after a calm August night, like an unopened Christmas present, full of promise. The Robin singing under the street lamp at 3am on a December night, and the Blackbird taking fruit from the palm of your hand. The first Snowdrops in spring, and the last Bittersweet berries in autumn. Wood-wasps, Weasels, Water-boatmen and Willow Warblers (this probably ought to be sung to the tune of My Favourite Things). It’s like having an Attenborough documentary on tap, every day of the year.

From a personal perspective, the best thing of all about my wildlife-gardening obsession (for that’s what it has developed into) is that it’s given me a cause for hope and optimism. Against a background of loss and destruction of nature in the wider world, it’s been an incredibly uplifting experience to see a tiny part of the planet improving for wildlife. And it’s been heartening to see how quickly nature has responded to the sympathetic treatment of this small but much-loved speck of land. It’s been a real case of ‘build it and they will come’.

As humans, we all need something to look forward to. In my case, looking ahead to the forthcoming year, and musing on what the garden may produce in terms of wildlife, provides just that. In the past I have used the word ‘salvation’ (without a trace of humour or irony) in regard to this relationship with nature, and for good reason. It’s difficult to imagine a life without it.

So if you’re at home over the forthcoming festive period, whether with family, with friends or simply keeping your own company, have a go at tapping into the wildlife around your home. It can provide entertainment, education, drama, comfort, and possibly even salvation, and it won’t cost you a penny. It might even change your outlook too. Good health!

Having blogged last week about our warming climate, it was inevitable that we’d then get a period of frost and ice just to make me look like a complete eejit. Sure enough, no sooner had I completed and scheduled last week’s post, the skies cleared (a rarity in itself this year) and the temperatures plummeted. In Collieston, nextdoor to the Reserve, the mercury dropped to -7^oC, and things remained below freezing for a period of about 60 hours. Furthermore, the wind actually abated – another excruciatingly rare occurrence here – and this led to the formation of the best hoar-frost we’ve seen here for a long time. This was a great couple of days to be out and about.

During this period the Reserve looked like a Christmas card – a proper winter wonderland. Every stem, dead leaf and tuft of lichen was edged with a silvery filigree of ice, and on the unsurfaced stretches of footpath, the grass scrunched pleasingly underfoot. The frost even reached down onto the salty shores of both coastline and estuary, welding the seaweeds to the strandline at low tide.

As luck would have it, this brief period of stunningly beautiful weather coincided with our rearranged Seal Watch event at Newburgh beach (an event which, surprisingly enough, had earlier been postponed due to adverse weather conditions). Danny was accompanied by Kate and Robert from St Cyrus NNR, who were ‘borrowed’ to Forvie for the day (or in Robert’s case of course, borrowed back!). They were joined by PC Hannah Corbett, our local Wildlife Crime Officer, and between them they chatted with nearly 70 members of the public out for a walk along the beach.

The aims of the event were to promote the responsible enjoyment of wildlife, both on the Reserve and beyond, with the key message being ‘observe but don’t disturb’. Binoculars and telescopes were on hand to give people some great views of the seals just across the water. What better way to spend a fabulous winter’s day?

With regard to the Forvie seal haul-out, the ‘responsible viewing’ message has never been more important than it is now. At the time of writing, a minimum of five Grey Seal pups have been born at the haul-out so far this season, hinting that this may become a regular and significant pupping site in future. This is surely the ultimate sign of the species giving the site its seal of approval (sorry) as a safe refuge – which is exactly what a nature reserve ought to be.

The pups are dependent upon their mothers until fully weaned, and it is at this phase of their lives they are most vulnerable. If the haul-out is approached by human visitors – even well-intentioned ones – the seals may flee into the water for safety, and small pups can be trampled in the melee and injured or killed. Mothers may also abandon pups if disturbed. So if you’re out for a walk around South Forvie, it makes good sense to avoid the haul-out area altogether – and besides, why approach the haul-out on foot from the Forvie side of the river, when you can get views like this from across the water at Newburgh beach?

We are, of course, extremely grateful to all our visitors who give the Reserve and its wildlife the respect that it deserves – not least because you set the example for others to follow, and make our lives (as Reserve staff) so much less difficult. But most of all, we extend that gratitude to you on behalf of the wildlife – thank you!

Occasionally our environmental advocacy work takes us beyond the boundaries of the Reserve, whereupon we’re actually let loose into normal society to spread the good word about nature and conservation. One such event happened last week, when we were invited to attend a careers fair evening at Kemnay Academy. A suitable array of props and tools of our trade were taken along, and some good conversation was had with interested students and parents alike. Though I’m not quite sure what the school staff made of seeing somebody striding through the campus carrying a chainsaw and a life-size cutout of a Grey Seal.

The unglamorous side of Reserve work also continues in the background, and I’m pleased to report that the routine drainage work around the Reserve has now been completed for the year. As we’ve said in the past, this sort of graft tends to be satisfying rather than exciting, although it occasionally turns up something interesting. This happened recently when we were sluicing out the Mealy Burn along the coast path, and among the usual tangle of vegetation and ochre-rich mud hauled from the ditch, we also found this vintage beer can, which had been remarkably well preserved (though unfortunately empty).

This looked to be a good age, and I would have guessed 1980s by the style of ring-pull and the lettering on the can. The use of the term ‘Western Germany’ would also seem to put this pre-1989. Clearly this had been occupying its niche in the Mealy Burn for some decades.

A faint stamp on the top of the tin read ‘6 85’, which may pertain to a month and year of manufacture (or perhaps a use-by date for the contents). This would make it a similar age to your author, though I fear the can has aged rather better. In any case, it was also stamped with a message that’s just as relevant today as it was in 1985…

Early in the working week, the frost had begun to give way to milder conditions (and later in the week, another biblical dose of rain – as if we needed it). During the thaw, the lochs took on a mirror-like appearance, as a thin skim of meltwater sat atop the ice. Even on a typically breezy day, the surface of Sand Loch remained flat-calm and brilliantly reflective, giving it a somewhat surreal quality, as if detached from the workings of the rest of the world for a while, the water in a state of serene meditation.

The thickness of the ice was such that it took several days to thaw. This made the task of reading the water level in one of the dune-slacks rather interesting, as the ice was too thick to break in order to wade out to the dipwell. In spite of my predilection for a pie and a pint, the ice easily took my weight (and don’t worry – before anybody reports me to NatureScot’s H&S officer, the water beneath was only wellie-boot-deep). This then left the simple task of measuring the distance between top of dipwell and surface of ice – job done.

Despite the unorthodox method used here, it’s imperative to note that we in no way advocate anybody walking on frozen water anywhere on the Reserve – you have no means of knowing how deep it is, or how thick the ice. And even if you don’t fall through it, you have a great chance of landing on your coccyx in any case (really not recommended). Best just to stick to the footpaths!

During the cold frosty mornings, we noticed that the Blackbirds at our feeding-station all had white tails and wingtips. This was due to a coating of frost – much like human hair of course, a bird’s feathers aren’t supplied with blood once fully grown, so they’re not heated. Blackbirds with frosty tails might look amusing, but it’s a reminder of how tough the winter can be for our wildlife, living in sub-zero conditions for long periods of time. ‘Our’ Blackbirds are among the luckier ones though, being kept supplied with fruit at the feeding-station during their time of need.

That said, they didn’t have it all their own way this week. A single Fieldfare, a roving refugee from the Scandinavian winter, was attracted by the fruit. This interloper proceeded to behave like a typical Viking invader, monopolising the food and tyrannising the locals. Short shrift was given to any Blackbird or Starling that dared so much as look at the fruit. But when the frost abated, the raiding Fieldfare moved on, and peace (or at least relative peace) was restored. This little saga is representative of the struggle for life prevalent everywhere – and viewable outside everybody’s window – during the northern winter.

It’s clear that even at this low ebb of the year, nature can make for some compelling viewing. Frosty mornings, winter thrushes, seal pups and stunning sunsets are pleasures freely available to everyone, provided you’re both curious and considerate. You can’t say fairer than that.

With the end of the year now approaching at an alarming rate, I recently found myself reflecting on the events of 2023 on the Reserve. With wry amusement, I recalled my deep concern about the drought that characterised the spring and early summer, and its effect upon the Reserve and its wildlife – noting that it’s basically rained continuously ever since. This particular soliloquy took place last week while walking back from a morning’s ditch-clearing work at Hackley Bay, having copped yet another comprehensive soaking in the process.

Of course, the effects of the climate upon life at Forvie go far beyond wet clothes and unpleasant working conditions. The weather is a massive driving force behind the natural processes that shape the Reserve – erosion, deposition, flooding, drought, the growth (or otherwise) of vegetation, the survival (or otherwise) of wildlife. And with all this stuff proving ever more unpredictable, what will the future hold for Forvie in the face of a changing climate? What follows in this article is a series of ‘what if’ scenarios and rhetorical questions, pondering over what may, or may not, lie in the road ahead.

One of the widely-accepted predictions for our climate in the decades ahead is an increase in storminess. Storms have always occurred here of course, but it’s the frequency and severity that appear to be changing. Severe storm events are becoming more frequent; we’ve seen this unfolding before our eyes in recent years, with a series of ‘named’ storms lashing the country – Arwen, Corrie, Malik and Babet to name a few in recent memory. What were formerly thought of as ‘hundred-year storms’ – i.e. the sort of exceptional weather event you’d only get on average once a century – may occur every few years. Fair enough, but what does this mean for Forvie?

Storms and high winds provide the energy for the movement of sand, lending the Reserve its unique dynamism, and resulting in an ever-changing landscape. This is particularly true at the south end of the Reserve, which contains large areas of bare sand and mobile dunes. It’s also where our breeding terns, gulls and Eiders nest each summer, and their future is dependent upon having sufficient habitat in which to raise their young. The extent and quality of the habitat depends a great deal upon the movement of sand, which in turn depends upon the weather. You can probably see where I’m going with this.

Already, we’ve seen a massive reduction in the extent of open shingle at the ternery – the habitat beloved by our small and fragile population of rare Little Terns. What the climate does to South Forvie in the coming years is likely to have a bearing upon their survival, or not, as a breeding species here (and thus north-east Scotland as a whole, with Forvie being the only regular breeding site for Little Tern in the entire region). No pressure then.

But that’s just the possible effect upon one particular species. There is potential for much bigger change here, not just to habitats on the ground, but to the landscape itself. In parallel with the reduction in shingle at the ternery, we’ve also noticed dramatic changes to the surrounding dunes. What we used to call the Big Dune (between the ternery and barrier fence in the summer) has reduced in height by some 50% as the sand is blown north-eastwards by the prevailing south-westerly winds, and the dunes to both the seaward and estuary sides have eroded similarly.

It’s possible that if this continues, the wrong storm at the wrong time, in combination with a big tide, could cut through the area and form a new river mouth to the north of the ternery. This would leave the ternery cut-off as an island; it would certainly be a change of routine to have to row across the channel to check the electric fence every summer morning! Then if the original river channel duly silted up, the ternery would effectively be joined to the south shore at Newburgh. If the birds continued to use the site, the issues with visitor pressure, disturbance and predation don’t bear thinking about. One of the ternery’s current strengths is that it is effectively isolated at the end of the Forvie peninsula, but all this might yet change.

OK, this future course of events is all completely hypothetical – but it’s by no means impossible.

Changes in rainfall are also afoot. Aberdeenshire has been identified as a region that’s likely to suffer increasing periods of drought, and the past three springs have been testament to this. Rainfall obviously affects groundwater levels, which in turn affect the presence (or absence) of standing fresh water – a rare and important habitat locally, with its own range of dependent species – as well as the growth of vegetation across the wider Reserve. This is particularly true for plants which ‘like their feet wet’, such as Willows. A drier climate is likely to disadvantage these species, again changing the face of the Reserve as we know it.

The other big concern of ours about a drier climate is the increased risk of wildfire – and there’s been plenty of that in the news throughout Europe and beyond in recent times.

Having said that, this past six months has seen plenty of rain, which I suppose illustrates the difficulty of predicting this stuff. But another prediction associated with climate change is an increase in extreme rainfall events, i.e. a large amount of precipitation in a short time. This is likely to cause more frequent issues with short-term localised flooding, both on the Reserve and in the wider world. This might benefit some species (e.g. by creating breeding pools for Common Frogs and aquatic insects), disadvantage others (e.g. by flooding out birds’ nests and small mammals’ burrows), and create issues for us in terms of maintaining the visitor infrastructure.

A completely anecdotal and un-scientific observation of mine is that over the past few years, it’s often seemed as if the ‘record has got stuck’, i.e. we’ll get weeks on end of the same weather: four months of drought, followed by six months of rain and high winds, and so on. This is maybe just pure chance, or maybe something to do with the movement of the jet stream. Either way, whether the Reserve becomes wetter or drier in the coming decades remains to be seen – but any change that does take place will be reflected by its entire flora and fauna.

One thing that has been proven beyond reasonable doubt is that our climate is becoming warmer. Well, I suppose milder would be a more appropriate term at our latitude, and at this time of the year – but nevertheless the point stands. Although the actual temperature change is a small one – no more than a degree or two centigrade – the effects of this are enormous. Among the more obvious developments in the natural world are changes in the distribution of species.

Some of these will take place outwith our normal line of sight, for example changes in distribution of marine life such as plankton. Although we don’t see these changes with our own eyes, we can and do witness the knock-on effects. Any shift in distribution or abundance of plankton is likely to affect populations of small fish; this in turn is likely to be reflected in seabird populations, for instance. So while we might not notice the zooplankton or the Sand-eels disappearing, we might find our cliffs are suddenly empty of Guillemots and Kittiwakes. This is a very real possibility, with climate change causing our sea temperatures to rise year on year. A silent spring for our seabird cliffs would be one of the tragic results of climate change.

Other changes are much more easily observed. Species formerly rare here are colonising from the south, the milder climate allowing them to survive and thrive further and further northwards. Little Egret, Cinnabar Moth and Mediterranean Gull are three species that instantly spring to mind at Forvie. Of course, where there are winners there are also losers, and other species are becoming correspondingly less common, although teasing out the climatic factors from all the other environmental factors behind this can be tricky to say the least. One thing is certain though: as our climate continues to alter, we’ll see this reflected in the range of species that call Forvie home.

I suppose the bottom line here is that we are living through a period of change – and in the long-term, evolutionary scale of things, it’s a period of extremely rapid change. Trying to predict exactly how this will affect Forvie in the long run isn’t going to be easy. We’re all along for the ride – let’s hope it isn’t a rough one.

The month of November at Forvie is the time for getting stuck into some of the unglamorous tasks associated with the upkeep of the Reserve. I’m talking here about the sort of jobs that often go unnoticed by our visitors, but would very much get noticed if they weren’t done. Footpath repairs, drainage work and litter picking are three examples of this sort of stuff, each falling into the category of ‘mundane but essential’. And as we’ve often remarked, working on a National Nature Reserve isn’t all rare birds, roses and rainbows.

Monday saw us tackle a bit of unscheduled drainage work; what better way to start the working week after all? Down at Rockend, where the Dune Trail footpath meets the beach, the after-effects of Storm Babet were still in evidence. The same high tides and onshore winds that undercut our track to the beach also dammed the burn with a rummel of driftwood and assorted beach debris. This then served to back the water up, comprehensively flooding the track, and getting past this point necessitated either wellies, or an awkward detour over the high dunes. Cue some of the aforementioned unglamorous work to sort it out.

This sort of work is actually remarkably satisfying, in a masochistic sort of way. Yes, it’s physically hard labour, and filthy to boot, but there’s something inherently pleasing in watching the water rush away when the final bit of a debris dam is cleared away. It’s presumably the same bit of the human condition that compels kids to spend hours damming streams and then breaking up the dams again – an activity that never seems to go out of fashion, despite the inexorable march of technology into young people’s lives in recent years.

The flooding sorted out, we then turned our attention to the beach access. Further erosion since Babet had left us with a possible route down to the beach, requiring just a bit of ‘sculpting’ (i.e. approximately a ton of sand to move). But between three folk, a ton of sand doesn’t take a great deal of sweat to shift, and we soon had what looked like a negotiable ramp down to the beach. Having added a bit of washed-up fishing net to aid traction, all that remained to be done was to jump in the vehicle and give it a go – carefully.

Two jobs accomplished for the price of one then. Path de-flooded and beach access restored. And what’s more, we had all acquired a very fashionable Former US President-style perma-tan. Catriona and Danny understandably broke out into a happy-dance – and who am I to argue with that?

This wasn’t the only hard yakka for the week. Another legacy of Babet was some fairly serious erosion of the flight of stone steps down to Hackley Bay, one of the Reserve’s most popular beauty-spots. This had threatened to undercut the bottom of the flight, rendering the path potentially dangerous, and some shoring-up was desperately needed.

This time it was just Catriona and myself on duty, and instead of a ton of sand, this time around we manually shifted about a ton of stone, drystane-dyking a new edge to the path. Capped with some eroded-out turves from a little further along the beach, come the springtime the roots will help to bind everything together, and hopefully the path will be protected from any further damage.

To help ease out my now-creaking joints, I later headed out on foot to Cotehill Loch, for a periodic inspection of the drainage there. In something of an anomaly from the recent trends of rain, wind and yet more rain, I was treated to a serene, becalmed afternoon, with hardly a breath of wind. Days like this have been so unusual this autumn that it almost felt a bit eerie, with sound literally carrying for miles across the open heath.

My quiet enjoyment of the afternoon didn’t last long though. Soon I began finding what looked from a distance like a scatter of snowballs among the grass and heather. Closer inspection revealed, inevitably, that it wasn’t snow after all (this would have been some trick at 10^oC anyway), but rather lumps of polystyrene type stuff. Yet more plastic in the environment – sigh.

It turned out that all these lumps of plastic had originated from a single sheet of foam insulation, presumably blown across the heath by the recent high winds. This would have been easy enough to clear up, but there was a rogue element at play. Clearly somebody’s dog had taken a shine to the stuff, and had very helpfully bitten it into chunks. So rather than one piece of plastic to remove from the heath, I was faced with around a hundred fragments instead. Double sigh.

So having stuffed my coat pockets to bursting point, in the style of a hamster’s cheeks, I piled the bigger bits up and carried the stack of shame back to the office wheelie-bin. Good job it was a windless afternoon, or the stuff would have gone everywhere. Still, two good things came of the situation: the plastic was removed from the rare and sensitive habitat of the heath, and in due course the owner of the dog in question can enjoy picking up some poo that’s a more interesting colour than usual.

I don’t want to come over excessively negative around the subject of dogs on the Reserve, but poorly-controlled dogs remain a real issue in terms of harm to wildlife at Forvie. Most of the time this manifests itself as disturbance, whereby dogs running free startle wildlife (whether birds, deer, seals, or whatever), causing them to flee and interrupting their resting, feeding or parenting activities. Sadly, many dog owners don’t see this as an issue (“he never actually catches anything…”), but the cumulative effect of many such incidents can mean the difference between life and death for the wildlife in question. This is particularly true during the breeding season, hard winter weather, or migration time (which, between them, cover most of the year). While this is an issue in the wider countryside, it is especially keenly felt in places like nature reserves, which are intended to be safe refuges for wildlife.

Sometimes, though, the harm is more immediately obvious. This week we received a message from Paul at the New Arc wildlife rescue centre. He was checking it was OK for him to release a rehabilitated Eider onto the Ythan Estuary (the answer, of course, was yes). The bird in question had been attacked by a dog – unlucky, yet completely avoidable. But in a reversal of fortune, he was taken in by the folk at the New Arc and nursed back to health, and is now ready to head back out into the wild.

There are two take-home messages from this story. Firstly, we ask that our visitors to Forvie keep their dogs under close control throughout the year, and for good reason – the Reserve is home to wildlife facing huge pressures, and needs to be treated with respect and consideration. Secondly, the folk at the New Arc do a magnificent job in caring for wildlife that has found itself on the receiving end, and we can’t praise them highly enough.

Having got that off my chest, we’ll finish up with a couple of wildlife sightings from the past week. First up was a female Merlin terrorising the Starlings over the north end of the Reserve. These tiny falcons are barely larger than a thrush, but they’re dashing and fearless little predators, and are capable of some spectacular aerobatics when pursuing potential prey. It’s likely that one or two Merlins will spend the winter around the Reserve, so keep your eyes open for that quick flash of movement – blink and you might miss it!

Lastly, there’s been a late push of Whooper Swans this week, with family parties of them dropping in on the estuary or roosting overnight on the lochs. These always make for an enjoyable and evocative sight and sound, especially in the rapidly-darkening evenings of November when most other bird migration has finished for the year.

It’s likely that these swans are in the process of heading southwards, and as such they’ll only stay here for a day or two before moving on again. But these are hardy birds, and consequently their appearance late in the autumn always raises the question of whether they know something that we don’t. Is there cold weather on the way? Time will tell, I suppose – I shall report back this time next week…