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…

As anyone who has tried to drive south at this time of year will know, the sun is low in the sky just now. We’re just under five weeks from the winter solstice and the sun is approaching its lowest angle in the sky, casting long shadows and never quite finding and filling some of the deeper frosty hollows on the Reserve. At least a couple of mornings this week have had hard frosts but the days have been immaculately clear, with the light turning to rose-gold in the evening and your shadow falling tall at your feet.

These clear sunsets have been an absolute pleasure to behold. One fact I love about the setting sun is that due to angles, and refraction, and the speed of light and everything, the sun has actually already set just as the bottom edge of the sun we perceive touches the horizon. Mind-bending, eh?!

It makes the fortnightly bird survey interesting, with our ID skills being tested to the limit, as it rather turns into a game of ‘guess the bird silhouette’. Telling dazzlingly-backlit birds apart is an eye-watering kind of business but, fortunately, with a bit of practice, a lot of the birds are different sizes and shapes and can be identified. Most of the time…sometime you just have to give up, or change angles; it’s not safe to look at even the reflection of the sun through binoculars or telescope, lest you should damage your eyes. Most people have dazzled themselves at some point even just glancing at the sun and I think everyone knows the ‘waiting for the purple spots to fade’ feeling.

In fact, these fortnightly bird surveys are beginning to take on a wintry feel now. Many of the wader species have already peaked in number, and have started to tail off as the birds head farther south with the falling temperatures and shortening days. But in a classic case of swings and roundabouts, as the waders step off centre-stage, so the ducks step up. Not only are they beginning to look their best, now moulted into fresh and bright breeding plumage, but they’re beginning to walk the walk too. The drakes are now getting down to the serious business of impressing the ladies, and for some species such as Goldeneye, the lengths to which they go are almost laughable.

A small gang of Goldeneye displaying on Sand Loch this week were briefly joined by an unexpected guest. A single Smew dropped in for just one day before moving on again. These are scarce at the best of times in north-east Scotland, and a quick check of the archives revealed that the last record of a Smew on Sand Loch was more than a decade ago in February 2013. So this week’s visitor was met with a resounding “About time too!”

As regular readers of this blog will know, Forvie boasts the largest seal haul-out on mainland Scotland. Until recently, the seals have largely just hauled out here – come ashore to rest between fishing trips, to moult fur and to socialise. But, in recent years, one or two females have had pups here, usually in late November.

This year, we have seen pups in the past couple of weeks, and it may be that the Ythan Estuary will become a major pupping site in future years. The pups are obviously very vulnerable – they are solely reliant upon mum for milk, and feed voraciously, gaining weight rapidly and weaning at around 3-4 weeks old. During this time, it is hugely important the seals aren’t disturbed for the pups’ safety – mum may abandon the pup if she is disturbed too often, or pups can be crushed if seals are startled by people and ‘stampede’ for the sea. A big bull seal weighs over quarter of a ton, and could easily kill a pup by accident.

For this reason, we are asking that people help to safeguard the seals by staying on the paths at the south end of the Reserve. We have also marked a couple of routes into in the dunes, where people can cut from the estuary to the beach and should still be able to avoid the seals.

While we totally understand that people want to walk round the point, either just for a walk or to get close views of the seals, this isn’t good news for the seals themselves. They will become alarmed when people are as much as 150 metres away, when they are on the same shoreline. But they are pretty laid back if you view them from the other side of the river, from the Beach Road car park in Newburgh… you can get much closer views from here, and enjoy guilt-free seal watching. We’d always recommend viewing the seals from here and really appreciate visitors respecting the seals’ space. Thank you!

Serious stuff aside, it’s confession time now. When it comes to illustrating this blog, I frequently hang my hat upon the photography skills of my colleagues. Catriona is a more-than-useful photographer with a good eye for an arty shot, while Danny is a highly-skilled cameraman and film-maker in his own right. Luckily for you readers, this means you don’t have to put up with too much of my own ‘photography’. Let me explain what I mean.

Wednesday last week concluded with a beautiful becalmed dusk. Some unplanned work had meant that I’d run out of daylight to complete the last duty of the day: reading the water levels in the dipwells. Never mind, it’s a nice evening for a twilight stroll, and I’ve got a torch on my phone for reading off the tape-measure – onwards and upwards then.

The dipwell route took me past the Flooded Piece, which was looking extraordinarily beautiful in the post-dusk gloaming. The last embers of the sunset were glowing on the western horizon, and a band of mist hung over the marsh like a silken curtain. Not that you’d know this from the photo above, which doesn’t even begin to do it justice. Next, a family of Roe Deer appeared over the horizon in silhouette – what a scene, and another chance for a prize-winning photo… or maybe not.

Then, as if the evening couldn’t get any better, the dusk flight of Pink-footed Geese passed right over my head, en-route to the local roost. OK, the light was pretty dud for photography by now, and the skills of the photographer in question even worse. But what about a video, to capture the atmosphere? Problem was, I couldn’t actually find the geese with the camera, and the ‘goose music’ was largely drowned out by the creaking of my jacket and the rattle of my cold fingers on the phone. Here’s the evidence.

Guess I’d better not give up the day job then. Oh, wait…

Having basically spent the best part of autumn 2023 being beaten up by the elements, it came as some relief that the second week of November at Forvie turned out fine and settled. After the endless rains of September, and then the storm-ravaged days of October, this felt like a holiday in the Mediterranean by comparison. Admittedly the temperatures weren’t quite up to scratch, but the clear skies, sunshine and beautiful becalmed evenings looked positively exotic. Truth is we’ve become unaccustomed to such delights in recent times, and thus the reprieve was appreciated by both people and wildlife.

The relatively flat landscape of coastal North-east Scotland makes for big skies, and Forvie’s undulating dunescapes and wetlands arguably look their best under a fine sunrise or sunset. Add some wildlife into the mix – a roost-bound skein of geese, or a puckle of ducks quietly feeding in the becalmed water, and a memorable scene is set. In all honesty, those of us who are lucky enough to live in a place like this, which offers up such delights on a regular basis, can sometimes forget how fortunate we are to have this ‘on tap’. 2023, however, has acted as a reminder to take nothing for granted, and consequently this past week has been appreciated beyond measure.

On two consecutive evenings earlier in the week, the light show continued after the sun had set. The Merrie Dancers – better known as the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights – graced the skies of the North-east, leading to a post-supper scramble for boots, warm clothing and camera. Sunday’s display in fact started before the daylight had fully faded, with the aurora going through its full repertoire – starting off with reds and purples, then morphing into the more familiar greens, clouds of colour shot through with the occasional searchlight-beam-style column of light. An ethereal experience to behold, and yet another facet of the natural beauty of Forvie.

With the Sun currently near the peak of its eleven-year cycle of solar activity, we’re hoping that the skies of the Reserve may see more scenes like these over the course of the coming winter. Of course, it’s difficult to predict exactly when it’s likely to occur, and even when it does, there’s no guarantee of clear skies in any case. But in a similar vein to wildlife-watching, the unpredictability is one of the things that makes it exciting. In both cases, all you can do is put yourself in the right sort of place at the right sort of time, and trust the rest to luck.

We’re currently approaching the new moon, meaning dark nights well-suited to aurora-spotting. It’s not until much later in the month that we’ll see the full moon again, but it’s worth taking a mental note to seek it out when the time comes. The full moon at Forvie makes for a spectacular sight, rising fiery-orange from the North Sea like a ball of molten glass from a glass-blower’s furnace, then cooling to the familiar bluish-white and bathing the Reserve in a milky twilight. A moonlit walk around the Sand Loch is one of life’s pleasures for sure.

The previous full moon, at the end of October, is known as the Woodcock Moon. The name probably derives from a tradition of hunting Woodcock at this time of the year, and indeed it is at this time that many of these strangely cryptic wading-birds make landfall here from the Continent. Woodcock are largely active under cover of darkness, and a moonlit night provides them with opportunities for both feeding and onward migration. During the day, however, they tend to lie low among rough grasses or leaf-litter, relying on their excellent camouflage to keep them safe.

Apart from being dressed in camouflage and living their lives under the cover of darkness, there is a third reason that Woodcock are exceptionally difficult to observe. For their size (about that of a fat pigeon), they have large eyes (more than twice the size of said pigeon’s eyes) giving them excellent eyesight in poor light. What’s more, the eyes are set high up on the head, giving them 360-degree all-round vision. This means they almost invariably see you before you see them, and consequently most encounters with Woodcock comprise a clatter of wings followed by a brief view of the bird disappearing rapidly over the horizon. To actually see one on the ground is a rare treat indeed.

Rather more obvious to the casual observer, the Roe Deer around the Forvie Centre are particularly prominent just now. The most frequently encountered individuals are a doe with her two offspring, now four-fifths fully grown. Look for this family party in the fields next to the Reserve car park, or the rough grassland around the Sand Loch – and be particularly aware if you have brought your dog to the Reserve. We’ve had numerous cases of lost dogs down the years, after they’ve got a sniff of deer and run off in pursuit. As ever, if in doubt, keep them on the lead – you could save yourself a lot of stress and heartache, and the wildlife will be grateful too!

After the clear nights came some crisp frosty mornings, and once again the contrast to the previous wet and stormy period couldn’t have been greater. These were fine mornings to be out and about, whether for work or for pleasure.

The monochrome world of a frosty morning is punctuated here and there by splashes of colour where fruits remain on the trees and shrubs. Rose hips and Bittersweet berries were each in evidence around the Forvie Centre, and these will be appreciated by hungry mammals and birds as the temperatures continue to drop.

Speaking of fruit-eaters, here at your correspondent’s headquarters we’re still receiving daily visits from Blackcaps, tucking hungrily into the apples laid on for them at the feeding-station. It’s now getting very late in the year for southbound migrants to be passing through, and it’s possible that these are German rather than Scandinavian breeders, migrating north-westwards to winter in the mild British Isles instead of southwards to Africa. This is a new pattern that has emerged in the past 25 years or so, and it’s thought that garden feeding-stations are one of the main drivers in this behavioural change. Whatever the reasons, it’s heartening to see wildlife adapting so quickly to changes in the world, and hopefully for this species at least, the future looks relatively bright.

As I finish typing this piece, the daylight has just about faded away, and another November day is in the rearview mirror all too quickly. All is not lost though – here’s hoping for clear skies tonight, and perhaps another light show to brighten the northern horizon…

Last weekend the clocks went back an hour, an event that always brings mixed feelings. On the debit side, the loss of an hour’s daylight each evening spells an end to the after-work hour in the garden, or the dash round the Reserve and village to cram in a spot of birding before dusk. Finding that elusive Red-flanked Bluetail or Pallas’s Warbler will now likely have to wait until another year – sigh. In this sense, the changing of the clocks unavoidably feels like a door closing on the year (unless you’re a morning person, which I emphatically am not). On the flip side, the extra hour in bed is always appreciated, and brings to an end my annual six-month-long sulk at having lost an hour’s sleep in the spring when the clocks went forward.

Regardless of the pros and cons of the time shift, life at Forvie carries on. The weekend of the clock change saw our last public event of the year, whereby local storyteller Pauline Cordiner ran two sessions – one for the kids, and one for the (alleged) grown-ups – telling some spooky Hallowe’en-themed tales.

Pauline’s ripping yarns were lapped up by young and old alike, and the event was very well received. We can only hope that nobody who attended had nightmares afterwards – either due to the ghostly nature of the stories, or the sight of the Reserve staff, whom like Pauline had come to the event suitably dressed-up.

Into the working week, and it was back to ordinary business once again. This is the time of the year when some of the Reserve’s infrastructure gets some much-needed attention, including our wind turbine at the Forvie Centre. This remarkable contraption has now given some fifteen years’ sterling service to the Reserve, weathering some extraordinary storms in the process, and this week it received its annual once-over from our specialist contractors. As ever, the process of lowering the turbine to the ground for inspection and maintenance was watched with fascination by staff and visitors alike.

Anyone who lives in a coastal environment will know the difficulties of keeping any machine with metal components in good condition, due to the insidious effects of salt corrosion. My car is a case in point: it’s well over 20 years old, and is basically now a ton of rust held together by flaking paint and cable-ties. Likewise, the turbine has suffered down the years at the hands of the elements, but I’m told that the secret to its endurance is copious amounts of grease and Waxoyl (other anti-corrosion products are of course available). This week’s maintenance should hopefully keep it turning – and generating clean, green, climate-friendly electricity – for another year.

A great deal of the past week has once again been overcast, wet and windy; this has very much been the theme of autumn 2023. The beginning of the week saw far the best weather, with the sun managing to break through the cloud for a while. At times, this produced some strange lighting effects, with beams of sunshine spearing down from the cloudbase. It looked a bit like some sort of divine event was happening – or perhaps the aliens were landing in Aberdeen Bay.

Actually, aliens were indeed landing. During one of the nicer spells of weather, a single Waxwing turned up on the Reserve boundary near Collieston. Waxwings are an ‘irruptive’ species, meaning that they occur sporadically in Scotland, depending on the availability of food – fruit and berries – in their native Scandinavia. If there’s plenty of food for them there, they don’t bother crossing the North Sea, so we simply don’t see them. But if the berry crop on the Continent is poor, they ‘irrupt’ across the North Sea seeking other opportunities.

It’s a bit early to say yet, but it’s looking like this might be a ‘Waxwing winter’ – so keep an eye on any berry-bearing trees and shrubs near you, and you might be lucky enough to see one. Or indeed a whole flock, for these are sociable, gregarious creatures. With their silky plumage, silvery voices and daft pointy hats, they make for a sight and sound to gladden the heart in these post-clock-change days.

Meanwhile, a Black Redstart nearby was at least the second of its kind to occur here within a week. We know that this is a different individual because it’s wearing ‘female-type’ plumage – lacking the jet-black breast, white eyebrow and white wing-panels of last week’s male bird. ‘Female-type’ means that it might well be a female, but could equally be a dull-plumaged immature male; it’s impossible to say for sure. In any case, like the Waxwing, this was proof of continuing new arrivals on our shores, notwithstanding the late date and capricious weather.

During the window in the weather on Monday and Tuesday, we got a bit more of the meadow-cutting-and-raking-up done at the Forvie Centre. It’s so much easier to lift and shift the cuttings when they’re not soaked through with rain, so it was literally a case of ‘make hay while the sun shines’. What with trying to get through as much work as possible before dark, I never got the chance to take any photos, hence the use of the ‘archive’ one below. Thus you might recognise the twelve-foot-tall Irishman in the photo – yes, it’s Patrick, our seasonal warden from 2019 to 2022.

Of course, the reason for this annual routine is to maintain the species-rich meadow, and to try and prevent the wild flowers being out-competed and overwhelmed by the growth of rank grasses. By cutting the vegetation and then removing the cuttings, nutrients are taken out of the system – nutrients which favour the growth of grasses over flowers. This may seem a bit counter-intuitive, since most forms of gardening and agriculture involve ‘improving’ the soil, i.e. adding nutrients. However, whereas agricultural practice tends to aim for a monoculture (of wheat, or barley, or grass for grazing livestock), we’re aiming for as diverse a flora as possible. This then supports the broadest diversity of pollinators, and so on. Hopefully next summer will see the fruits of this week’s labours.

Later in the week we assisted with the annual University of Aberdeen field-skills visit. This involves several small groups of students being posted to various locations around the Ythan Estuary, where they undertake a variety of biological sampling and recording exercises. Three of the groups were tasked with a bird-surveying exercise, and the Forvie staff were drafted in as ‘experts’ (steady now) to help out with the species identification side of things, and to impart some knowledge and experience of this kind of survey work.

Learning to identify grey birds feeding on grey mudflats under a grey sky on a cold November morning isn’t to everyone’s liking, nor is it the easiest of assignments. But hopefully the students found it as useful as we found it enjoyable – this is definitely one of the better tasks in my job plan for sure, and the craic is always good compensation for the early start.

Winter waders are notoriously tricky to identify for the beginner; all the bright colours and distinctive markings of the breeding season are long gone, replaced instead by their sombre winter feathers. Many species are superficially similar – grey above, whitish below, long legs, long beak. But with a bit of careful observation, and a bit of practice, it’s perfectly possible to separate your Greenshanks from your Godwits, and so on. As I said to the students, nobody is born knowing this stuff, and even experienced observers like the Forvie staffers had to start from scratch once.

Thankfully, not all the residents of the estuary are grey and cryptic. Some species are delightfully easy to recognise, and the Little Egret that we saw from the Snub lay-by was a case in point. Pity all the waders aren’t this easy to identify!

Of course, with the clocks having now changed, by mid-afternoon the light was already beginning to fail, not helped by a heavy overcast and impending rain. Time for the students to pack up and head back into town, taking with them reams of precious data for their respective projects, hopefully having spent a worthwhile and fulfilling (if cold) day in the field. And it was time for the Reserve staff to head for their respective homes too. This felt like the beginning of the winter timetable at Forvie – early start, day in the field, early finish, collapse at the fireside with a brew and thaw out.

Onwards, then, into the dark evenings of November. But time passes disconcertingly rapidly: in just a few short weeks the year will have turned, and the days will start to lengthen once more. Never mind Hallowe’en stories – that’s a properly scary thought.

Last Monday dawned clear, crisp and still at Forvie. After what seemed like an age, Storm Babet had finally departed, and in her absence bequeathed us a perfect autumn’s day – as if to apologise for the pummelling that had been meted out the previous week. On the Reserve we were especially grateful for the reprieve, as this was to be the day of our public beach clean. This event had already been the victim of previous bad weather, and been rescheduled accordingly. This time around, though, we couldn’t have hoped for a better day for it.

In the event, the beach was surprisingly clean, especially given the onshore winds recently; such conditions usually tend to result in a lot of rubbish washing in. That said, we did find the usual selection of plastic waste, from bottles and bits of rope to those infernal filter discs from last year’s spill at the water-works. There were one or two bigger items too, including a tractor tyre which must have been at least forty years old. For half an hour or more, this particular item was locked in battle with Lauren from East Grampian Coastal Partnership – with whom we co-operate when it comes to our beach-cleaning efforts at Forvie. This struck me as a bit of an unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object situation, but in the end, determination won the day. To Lauren’s great credit, the tractor tyre’s long stay in the North Sea has finally come to an end.

Being out on the beach gave us a chance to see not only what the storm had washed ashore for us, but also what it had done to the landscape. As we’ve mentioned countless times before, Forvie is a remarkably dynamic landscape, and this is one of the Reserve’s greatest assets. While most dune systems in Europe have been modified by people – stabilised, afforested, rendered static by hard engineering, or reprofiled by heavy machinery – ours is left for nature to take its course. In fact, this dynamism is one of the key ‘notified features’ of the Reserve, along with its habitats, flora and fauna. It’s one of the reasons that Forvie is a nature reserve in the first place.

Sure enough, some dynamism had indeed been happening along the beach during Storm Babet. At Rockend, where the track from Waterside drops down onto the beach, there had been some significant erosion. Here the dunes had been undercut by the powerful wave action associated with the storm, and what was once a smooth slope was now a five-foot cliff of sand. Not ideal when it comes to accessing the beach with a vehicle – even our trusty pickup truck can’t handle that sort of obstacle. Nothing for it then but to carry the beach litter back to the truck by hand. But that’s life on a dynamic landscape – rather than fight against it, it’s up to us to work around the changes and associated challenges that nature throws up.

The fine and settled weather of beach-clean day wasn’t set to last though. While Monday morning was clear, sharp and frosty, by Wednesday we were back to wet and windy again. A buffeting easterly wind brought with it sheets of rain, and it felt as if cloudbase was about eighteen inches above your head.

The increasing windspeeds once again livened up the sea, and just like the previous week, there was sea foam everywhere. Yes, it’s only soft stuff – a bubbly froth of proteins and fats from defunct plankton and other marine life – but take it from me, being hit in the face by a rugby-ball-sized lump of it at 40 mph isn’t fun. Thus it was a case of running the foam gauntlet along the cliff path at the Corbie Holes, where it almost looked as if it had been snowing.

Easterly winds and rain, of course, add up to good conditions for observing bird migration, as we touched-upon during last week’s missives. In autumn, an easterly is essentially a helpful tailwind for migrants wanting to cross the North Sea, while the rain serves to reduce visibility for the birds. This forces them to fly at lower height, and consequently to make landfall on the coast – rather than flying higher and heading straight inland, as they do in fine weather. Right enough, a nice selection of routine migrants from the Continent was in evidence right across the Reserve.

While numbers were modest, variety was good. Several species of thrushes were prominent, including Fieldfares. These could be found tucking hungrily into any fruit remaining on the trees, bushes or dwarf shrubs of the heath (Crowberry is a favourite here). Blackcaps were also widespread this week, and like the aforementioned Fieldfares, these enterprising little warblers are quick to take advantage of any fruit on offer. Try putting out halved apples in the garden, on a bird table or wedged in the twigs of a tree, and you might well be graced by the visit of a Blackcap. As warblers go, Blackcaps are refreshingly straightforward to identify, and unlike most other warblers you can even tell male from female – the sexes wear different coloured caps!

Of all the intrepid journeyers from the Continent, arguably the most impressive is the Goldcrest. These are about the size of a ping-pong ball, and weigh just five grams when fit and healthy (the same weight as a 20p coin). I remember in my youth handling a live Goldcrest during a bird-ringing lesson, and being terrified of injuring this tiny, fragile scrap of life. But for all their delicate build, cute facial expression and minute, high-pitched squeaky voice, these are tough little cookies. I couldn’t cross the North Sea under my own steam, but these can – and they do, every autumn, with the survivors returning in the spring. Respect.

The grey days tend to make the Reserve look rather monochrome, but this a bit unfair. If you look up from your bootlaces for a moment (not very appealing in a 40 mph rainstorm, I appreciate), there are some fine autumn colours to be found. Like the leaves accumulating in the dune slacks (now wouldn’t that make a fine wallpaper or tablecloth?)…

…and the silvery lichens growing among the reddening stems of Crowberry, looking like a terrestrial coral reef…

…while on the trunks and branches of the various willows grow a different assemblage of lichens and mosses, resembling a tiny rainforest. Oh to be able to put names to them all!

Finally, going back to Storm Babet’s after-effects, it appears that the Grey Seals have returned to their favourite haul-out spot again, by the old pillbox at the mouth of the estuary. For the past few months they have tended to favour the beach a few hundred metres further up the coast, not far from where the barrier fence meets the beach during the summer. However, it seems a good blast of easterly wind, plus the associated changes in the profile of the beach, have convinced them that they’re better off back where they started.

This provides a timely opportunity to remind our visitors of the sensitivities of the seal haul-out (as well as the Reserve’s other wildlife, such as roosting and feeding birds), and the importance of responsible viewing. Keep a respectful distance, watch out for signs of disturbance or distress, and back away or change your route if needs be. This is common sense, or course, and I doubt whether any regular readers of this blog actually need to be told any of this.

So another week of contrasts comes to an end: sunshine and rain, calmness and winds, erosion here and accrual there. A restless landscape in a constantly changing world. This place never gives you a chance to get bored.