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.

This week at Forvie will be remembered for the arrival, and thence the long residence, of Storm Babet. This intense low-pressure system brought a prolonged period of severe gales and lashing rain to Scotland’s east coast, and produced some spectacular seas along Forvie’s shores. It’s been some considerable time since the last really strong easterly blast, with wind and sea bearing down directly onshore, and such events remind us of the awesome power of weather and water. Provided you kept a safe distance from water and cliff edge, and wrapped yourself up in sufficient warm and waterproof clothing, being out and about in this was an exhilarating experience.

Just to the north of the Reserve, the village of Collieston was taking a hammering. This was the scene on Thursday just prior to high tide. The houses at the proximal end of the pier give you an idea of the height of the waves breaking over it, while the clouds of spray give an indication of the strength of the wind.

One of the artefacts of a big easterly storm at Forvie is the seemingly perpetual high tide in the Ythan Estuary. The onshore winds and wave action serve to ‘back up’ the water in the estuary, preventing it flowing out from the east-facing mouth of the river, and maintaining an unusually high water level throughout the tidal cycle.

The two photos below were taken within literally five minutes of one another – the first showing the low tide at Collieston harbour, and the second showing the contrastingly high water level in the estuary. This is a useful practical demonstration of the disclaimer printed on many published tide tables: “Atmospheric pressure, wind and weather may affect the height and timing of tides…” Salutary advice indeed for would-be coast-goers during storm conditions.

Storm Babet reached its ferocious peak late on Thursday. This was breathtaking weather to be out in. After a quick look over the sea and a mad dash around the Sand Loch footpath, I returned indoors feeling slightly bruised and battered, and disproportionately exhausted for only having taken a short walk. But I had it easy, being able to return at any time to the shelter of a watertight house, a wood fire and a warming cuppa. What then for our wildlife, facing the wrath of the elements with no such respite?

Despite the atrocious conditions, with stinging rain being hurled sideways on 75mph gusts of wind, it was evident that a few migratory birds had managed to make landfall. These included a handful of Redwings, and at times like these their old Orcadian name of Wind-thrush never seems more appropriate.

Slightly more surprising was this handsome male Black Redstart, a scarce bird in this part of the world, who was found sheltering behind a stone wall at author’s HQ. He looked absolutely exhausted and we made sure to give him a wide berth and allow him to rest and recuperate. Thankfully he survived Thursday’s downpour, and was still around on Friday when the weather had dried up a bit, looking a lot more lively and happier with life.

Notwithstanding brisk walks to blow away the cobwebs, storm days are a fine opportunity to catch up on report-writing and various other administrative tasks (yes, even estate-worker-cum-dogsbodies like myself have our share of desk work to do). Ensconced in the back room at home, just a stone’s throw from the Reserve boundary, I was able to work away at the laptop while keeping half an eye on the garden feeding-station. It was a delight therefore on Friday morning when this lovely male Brambling showed up among the resident House Sparrows.

This little fellow had clearly just completed a harrowing crossing of the North Sea in conditions that would have killed many lesser creatures. Having serendipitously put down in our garden, as opposed to the windswept and exposed coastline on either side of the village, like any weary traveller he sought out three of life’s necessities. Firstly something to eat…

…then something to drink…

…and once replete, a good old wash and brush up!

Before the onset of Babet, the week had actually started with a couple of beautifully serene and settled days, of the type that have been in short supply this autumn. Monday morning on the estuary felt like a different world to what was to follow later in the week.

Tidal erosion at the mouth of the river had revealed a curious and remarkable array of natural earthworks – little tubes constructed from sand, resembling spaghetti emerging from a pasta machine. None of us had ever before seen such a bizarre sight, and were suitably perplexed. Time to head off and do a bit of research then – as I’m fond of saying, you never stop learning in this job.

These structures, it turns out, are the handiwork of Sand Mason Worms. These are a species of marine bristle worm, and they use sand to construct a protective tube, stuck together with mucus, in which they live. Normally the tube is largely buried beneath the surface of the sand; the only part of the worm that peeps above the surface is its tentacled head as it searches for tiny morsels of food in the water. However, recent erosion at the mouth of the estuary had exposed an entire colony of Sand Mason Worms, or at least their sand-and-mucus constructions (the worms themselves had presumably retreated to greater depths upon being unceremoniously evicted by the erosion event).

I was doubly delighted about discovering this, because 1) it’s always nice to learn something new, and 2) worms are a criminally under-represented aspect of our wildlife on this blog. As a group, they form a crucial part of both marine and terrestrial ecosystems, and deserve more attention and respect than I have been able to give them. But that’s a symptom of a group of species that generally live their lives out of our line of sight. Shame on me.

Monday morning was nothing short of glorious on the upper estuary too. The area between the Snub and Waulkmill Hide was grey with geese, with around 8,500 Pink-footed and 90 Barnacle Geese present on the mudflats. The spectacle from the hide was magnificent, and Catriona cheekily snapped a photo of Robert and I peering eagerly through the window slots, taking it all in.

Of course, one of the best things about big gatherings of geese is the sound. Again, Catriona was able to capture a bit of this in the following video – if you are able to ignore the traffic and the Great Tit who was keen to get his/her voice on the recording too.

Lastly, in weeks like this one, you wonder how creatures as fragile as insects can survive the pummelling we’ve received from the weather. This Angle Shades moth was spotted on a wall at the Forvie Centre early in the week, and we can only hope it managed to find a sheltered spot in which to wait out the storm.

With more strong easterlies forecast for the coming week, it looks like being a tough October for much of our wildlife – but potentially an interesting one for students of bird migration at least. Watch this space – and meantime stay safe in the face of the weather.

Walking around the reserve today, taking in all the sudden changes that autumn is bringing (longer nights, shorter days and changing colours); I began to wonder how our ancestors made sense of it all. There are so many phenomena to observe in autumn, that must have given them both a sense of wonder and fear. We take all the changes in our stride nowadays, but I thought it might be interesting to look into some of the science behind the general phenomena which define autumn, here at Forvie and throughout the UK.

Meteorological autumn, is a fixed monthly date for consistent spacing and lengths of the seasons. Therefore, in accordance to the meteorological calendar, the first day of autumn is always the 1st of September and it ends on 30th of November. In meteorological terms, our seasons are defined as spring (March, April, and May), summer (June, July, August), autumn (September, October, November) and winter (December, January, February). Astronomical autumn is a bit different, because when we usually talk about the first day of autumn, we are actually referring to the astronomical autumn, which is defined by the Earth’s axis and orbit around the Sun. This year autumn began on 23rd of September 2023 and will end on 22nd of December 2023. The astronomical calendar determines the seasons due to the 23.5 degrees of tilt of the Earth’s rotational axis, in relation to its orbit around the Sun. Equinoxes and solstices are both related to the Earth’s orbit around the Sun.

Autumn is clearly defined by ever-shortening days. This year, the process of days becoming progressively shorter started after 23rd of September 2023, which was the autumn equinox. The word equinox comes from the Latin ‘equi’, which means ‘equal’, and ‘nox’, which refers to night time. Therefore, the word ‘equinox’ refers to the time in which day and night are of equal length. We tend to notice the nights beginning to draw in from this point, and of course after the autumn equinox, the nights are longer than the days, until this is reversed at the spring equinox. Generally speaking, the autumn equinox always falls on either 22nd or 23rd of September. But this isn’t always the case and because the Gregorian calendar is not quite in perfect symmetry with the Earth’s orbit, the autumn equinox will very occasionally fall on 24th of September. This last happened in 1931 and will happen again in 2303, but that’s not a date any of us will need to pencil in!

The process of days becoming ever-shorter, will be especially noticeable on 22nd of December, which will be the winter solstice (which often occurs on the 21st as well). The winter solstice is generally known as the shortest day of the year, after which point, the days will slowly lengthen again. The word solstice comes from Latin ‘Sol’, meaning ‘Sun’ and ‘sistere’, which translates ‘to not move’. When the two words are combined, the literal meaning of the winter solstice translates to something like ‘the standing still of the Sun’. I imagine for our ancestors it probably seemed that way. The Earth’s orbit around the Sun is elliptical, an oval trajectory as opposed to circular. Therefore, there are two moments during the year when the path of the Sun in the sky is farthest south in the Northern Hemisphere (December 21st or 22nd) and farthest north in the Southern Hemisphere (June 20th or 21st) – and these are the shortest days of the year. Since prehistory, the winter solstice has been an important time of year in many cultures, often being celebrated with festivals and rituals, which marked the symbolic death and rebirth of the Sun.

Most people will have heard the phrases ‘astronomical autumn’ or ‘meteorological autumn’, but there is a third way to define autumn, a methodology which comprises phenological indicators. These cover a wide array of ecological and biological signs, ranging from leaves falling off the trees to the migration of birds to warmer climates or from colder ones. Of course, these events are significantly influenced by the weather and climate. Therefore, in the future, it’s possible that climate change could cause autumn to start later (or even earlier), than the standard astronomical or meteorological definitions, depending on the geographic area in question. But generally speaking, autumn is tending to start progressively later in the UK as the years go by.

One of the most iconic signs of autumn is the turning of the leaves. The shorter days are a sign to trees to prepare for their winter shutdown. During winter, there is not enough light for photosynthesis to occur, so as the days shorten throughout autumn, trees begin to close down their food production systems and reduce the amount of chlorophyll in their leaves. Chlorophyll is the chemical which makes tree leaves green and as it declines, other chemicals become more prominent in the leaves. These are responsible for the vibrant ambers, reds and yellows of autumn. The chemicals responsible, are types of flavonoids, carotenoids and anthocyanins. You should check out our own willow and birch scrub on the sand dune heath, here at Forvie, their leaves will start to change to glorious orange and yellow, in response to cooler temperatures in the coming weeks.

I wanted to end this blog post with a bit of history and folklore. We typically think of ‘fall’ as an exclusively North American term for the season, but it was widely used across the UK until relatively recently. Fall is actually a shortening of the phrase ‘fall of the leaf’, as Spring is for ‘spring of the leaf’. The phrase was common in the UK up to the 18th century, when autumn became more popular, originating from the French word ‘automne’ which in turn was derived from the Latin ‘autumnus’. Although we now define autumn in astronomical, meteorological and phenological terms, in Greek mythology, autumn began when Persephone was abducted by Hades to be the Queen of the Underworld. In distress, Persephone’s mother, Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, caused all the crops on Earth to die until her daughter was allowed to return every spring. I rather like this more poetic explanation of nature’s shut down for winter! With that thought, I’ll wish you a week of autumn wonders. Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. Cheers, Danny

October is an exiting month in the natural wold. Okay, if you’re into your wildlife, they’re all exciting months, but October is one of those months when it really does feel like all change. We’re three weeks past the equinox now and the nights, as they say, are fair draawin’ in – it’s dark early in the evening now. We’ve had some cracking warm days but, that the second the sun goes away, you need a jacket. And there’s been a noticeable thinning of some of the wildlife too. Red admirals, so plentiful a month ago, are now down to the odd one basking on a wall on a sunny morning.

There are still swallows around, but you’re seeing them southbound, flying with purpose, not soaring joyfully around the villages in pursuit of insects. It’s hard to get your head round, but some of the same swallows that soar with seeming gay abandon though our skies will now be soaring with gay abandon after insects kicked up by elephants on the African plains. The latest I’ve ever seen a swallow was 6th Nov – last year – and that’s likely a sign of climate change as they stay later into the autumn.

In this part of the world, probably our most obvious sign of migration is the return of the geese. These returned from their breeding grounds in Iceland in early September, but will continue to trickle south over the course of October and their ‘wink-wink’ calls are the soundtrack of autumn here. There can be a roost of several thousand on the estuary, or on nearby Meikle Loch, and watching huge skeins of them scribbling great ‘V’s and ‘W’s on the sky is truly one of the spectacles of the natural world.

In with the usual pink-footed geese, we’ve been lucky enough to spot some barnacle geese this week. These smart black-and-grey birds breed in Greenland and Svalbard and are being threatened by climate change. Changes in the sea ice mean polar bears are now getting stranded for the summer on the geese’s nesting islands, and are are making a meal of the eggs and goslings. So, the geese often nest high on cliffs to avoid predation, but this does leave the goslings with the task of getting down a cliff face. They jump, and can survive falls of over 30 metres, as their bones are very soft in the first couple of days out of the egg. It’s unlikely these barnacle geese will overwinter here, and they’re likely to head to the main barnacle goose wintering grounds on the Solway Firth or Islay.

October is also the month we expect to see whooper swans starting to appear here. But migration seems to have been slow this year. It probably hasn’t escaped your notice we’ve had weeks of south-westerly gales…and Daryl, who usually writes the blog, has been crying into his beer over the lack of easterlies to bring him some rare birds! If you’re a bird that’s bred in the far north, and are following the great sky-roads south to your wintering grounds, you ideally don’t want to be flying into a headwind the whole way….so you’ll hang around, waiting for a break in the winds. Though the forecast is never that accurate several days ahead, it does look like the wind might go northerly over the weekend – and we wouldn’t be surprised if there was a big arrival of swans, and maybe redwings and fieldfares too.

And, if those winds, have a hint of east in them, you never know what might show up here. Every year, we usually have a few Siberian waifs appearing, in the form of yellow-browed warblers. These tiny scraps of life breed in China and may have, over the course of the summer, seen giant pandas below their nest. Then, in autumn, they turn up here. And this is a bird that weighs less than two 20p coins. It utterly blows your mind that this could even be possible!

But it’s not all about epic journeys. True, we have Arctic terns than nest here that are currently somewhere in the Southern Ocean, but it’s easy to forget that a lot of ‘local’ migration takes place too. Birds that nest in the hills, like pipits, or lapwings, or golden plover, will move onto the coast in winter. It’s usually milder here and you have places like the Ythan estuary which, thanks to tides, don’t freeze over – and are full of food. Many birds will move within the UK but don’t need to go further afield to find somewhere clement enough for them to survive the winter.

It’s not even all about birds. On the milder days, you might see tiny toadlets crawling determinedly though the grass. These will be ‘migrating’ away from their breeding ponds, looking for somewhere safe to overwinter. You may even find them turning up in greenhouses! I wouldn’t normally advocate picking them up but this one had found its way into a shed and had to be evicted for its own sake…and it does give you an idea how small they are.

We’ll also start to see the seal numbers pick up over the winter, too. ‘Our’ grey seals will mostly come here after they have bred elsewhere, like the Isle of May. Once they’ve bred, they moult and regrow their coat. So they spend a lot of time scratching off old fur!

Although the seals – and the birds – are capable of long journeys, they only travel because it is strictly necessary. They are travelling to find food, or escape harsh weather or to find a safe place to rest and regrow fur. The last thing any of these creatures need is additional travel – just getting here will have used up huge amounts of energy and some won’t have made it. So we can really help them by giving them a wide berth – stay on the paths and avoid groups of feeding or roosting birds. Keep your dog under close control – and certainly never let it run after wildlife. And watch the seals from the Newburgh side of the river. Our wildlife can perform miracles of migration – but needs the peace and quiet to recover. You can help all these creatures by giving them that space.

If you’ve subscribed to this blog for any length of time, you’ll be well aware that spring and summer at Forvie are collectively known as the ‘crazy season’ – essentially six months of non-stop mayhem. Consequently, those of us who work here tend to take our time off later in the year, when things have simmered down a bit. By this I mean the breeding birds have pushed off, the vegetation’s stopped trying to take over the world, and most other people have gone back to work and school. Thus you can head off on holiday with a clear mind, without dreading coming back to a mountain of problems and an endless backlog of work.

Having said that, a lot can happen in two weeks on the Reserve, even outwith the crazy season. Certainly this time around, it felt as if we’d departed in late summer and arrived back in late autumn, a whole season having elapsed in our absence. It took a few days therefore to pick up the threads, and to readjust to life on our windswept east coast.

In that two weeks, the heath at Forvie has shed its summer clothing and morphed into an autumnal landscape. Gone are the pinks and purples of the heathers; likewise the sparkle of wildflowers along the footpaths. Just a few late flowers now remain, in defiance of the turning of the seasons. For all this, however, the landscape is no less attractive, with the leaves of the Creeping Willows beginning to turn gold, and here and there a sprinkling of colourful fungi to catch the eye.

Autumn is, of course, the best time of year to search for fungi. Although fungi are active all year, all the action takes place underground in a vast network of mycelia – the fungal equivalent of a root system. Each different species of fungus has its own life strategy – some symbiotic with plants and trees, some parasitic, some decomposers, and so on – all their affairs conducted via the mycelial network. It’s a bit like the internet for mushrooms.

Just like the internet, we can’t actually see it. What we can see is the fruiting body of the fungus – the actual mushroom or toadstool. This is basically the means by which the fungus releases spores, in order to reproduce and disperse (much like the wind-borne seeds of a plant). This I know, and yet for some reason I always find it difficult to comprehend that the mushroom I’m seeing is only a small part of a much larger subterranean organism.

Identifying mushrooms and toadstools is notoriously difficult, even for well-practiced experts, never mind ordinary workaday folk like myself. This is why picking wild mushrooms for culinary use can be fraught with danger: many a fatal mistake has been made down the years, even by experienced foragers. I have tried to identify, to the best of my (limited) abilities, a few of the fungi currently present around the Heath Trail, and have captioned each photograph as such. Rest assured that none of these are coming home for my weekend fry-up though.

Insect life has become noticeably thinner on the ground following our two-week absence. Bumblebees are very much winding down for the year now, and the few individuals that were in evidence earlier in the week looked decidedly sulky and lethargic in the low temperatures and high winds.

A typical autumn insect at Forvie is the Devil’s Coach-horse beetle. These are largely-nocturnal predators upon other invertebrates, belonging to a family of insects known as the rove beetles (good name for a band, if you ask me), and are a familiar sight roving around on Forvie’s footpaths. Although they can be seen throughout the warmer months of the year, they are especially obvious in autumn – this is their mating-season, and consequently they are active in daylight as well as under cover of darkness.

An unwary late invertebrate would likely be a much-appreciated bedtime snack for a Common Toad. I say bedtime snack because our local Toads will soon be turning in for the forthcoming winter, snuggling down somewhere cosy, safely tucked away out of the reach of the frost. Technically speaking they don’t actually hibernate, as they will come out of hiding during spells of mild weather to have a feed – but at our latitude, in practice we don’t see much of them at all during winter. So enjoy them now while you can – encounters such as the one below will become increasingly infrequent as the year rolls onwards.

Down to the shore now, and recent high winds have generated some angry seas along our coast, not least on Wednesday when we met with the tail end of Storm Agnes. It’s on days like these that the summer suddenly seems a thousand miles away in the rearview mirror.

The stormy waters aren’t making life any easier for those creatures who call the North Sea home. Over the past month we have witnessed another large-scale die-off of seabirds, especially Guillemots and Razorbills. This is a separate issue to the avian ‘flu outbreak which decimated our breeding seabirds in the summer, with all recent post-mortem results having come back negative for the ‘flu. It’s more likely that what we’re seeing now is a starvation event, with the beached birds appearing severely underweight; further post-mortems may yet reveal the full story.

In any case, the present situation is illustrative of the multifarious pressures facing our seabirds – and as a barometer of the health of the marine environment, their struggles are a worrying reflection on the state of our seas in general. Whether it’s climate change affecting sea temperatures, overfishing, plastic pollution, or any number of other factors, it’s clear that we, as a species, need to take better care of our seas – for our own sake as well as theirs.

Speaking of strandings, one of the hot topics when we arrived back from leave was the appearance of a dead whale on Forvie beach just south of Rockend. This appeared in mid-September, but judging by the state of decomposition, it had died some time before coming ashore. Indeed, it was in such poor condition that we couldn’t even be sure what species it was, though its size and the law of probability would favour Minke Whale.

Lots of people have been asking what’s going to be done about the dead whale. In all honesty, the best option is to do nothing at all. Quite apart from the practical difficulties in moving and disposing of a large and well-rotted carcass, dead sea mammals are a natural part of the marine ecosystem, whereby nutrients are recycled into the environment. Nature is well-equipped to deal with this, with the various scavengers and scaffies of the natural world happy to step up to the (dinner) plate.

Who knows, if the carcass lasts into the winter, we might hope to see Forvie’s first Ivory Gull – an Arctic species which occasionally strays south to our part of the world, and whose specialism is cleaning up seashore carrion. Probably wishful thinking on my part, but you never know. Every cloud and all that…

A relief then to have negotiated the first week back after my fortnight’s absence – dead whale and all. Honestly, I turn my back on this place for five minutes…

Here at Forvie one of my weekly duties is to conduct grey seal counts. They usually involve a long walk along the estuary path (beyond Waterside wood) and also a walk along the Newburgh ‘seal beach’. For my blogs I usually decide on one or two species of interest and focus my research and observations on those. But this week I thought why not make a record of all the bird species that I encounter along both my seal walks and see what turns up?

It’s easy to take for granted, the unique and wonderfully diverse range of bird species that call Forvie ‘home’ – be it their breeding place or wintering ground. So, this blog is all about the wading birds of the estuary, that I observed, filmed and photographed, while enroute to the seal haul-out. It turned out to be a rewarding exercise. Before I talk about how I got on, I think it will help to highlight the significance of the Ythan estuary, for a bit more context; as it is a kind of mecca for migratory birds in particular.

The Ythan Estuary is the tidal extremity of the Ythan River, which outwashes into the North Sea between Aberdeen and Peterhead. Tidal processes of the estuary extend approximately 4 miles inland and its widths vary between 250 and 780 metres; processes which are responsible for creating a very large area of mudflats, saltmarsh reaches, shingle flats and sandy beaches; alongside sand dunes and coastal moorland. This specific configuration of habitats makes the Ythan estuary an extremely valuable location for wading birds, ducks and geese during the autumn and winter period (and equally important for other species such as terns and eiders in the spring and summer). This is why it is a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) and also site number 939 on the Ramsar list of Wetlands of International Importance.

It is also worth mentioning that the sand dune heath situated to the east of the estuary, is one of the largest coastal moorlands in the UK, comprising nearly 1000 hectares. This habitat is considerably smaller in size than our extensive upland moorlands, which makes it all the more precious. The impressive conservation status of the area doesn’t end there, because the estuary also qualifies as a Special Protection Area (SPA), thanks to supporting species of European importance, including 8% of the wintering Eastern Greenlandic and Icelandic pink-footed goose population, during autumn and winter.

Now I’ll get back to my personal challenge. On my way to the haul-out for my latest seal count, I encountered 14 species of birds. These included: carrion crow, jackdaw, grey heron, peregrine falcon (it was a juvenile wreaking havoc across the estuary), herring gull, great black-backed gull, common eider, lapwing, golden plover, bar-tailed godwit, curlew, redshank, oystercatcher and the rather mysterious turnstone. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to film the peregrine, it took me off guard and was gone in the blink of an eye. Although, I did manage to get some decent shots of some wader species, particularly the turnstones, which were very obliging.

It’s probably worth mentioning too, that the seal numbers are looking normal for the time of year, between 400 and 500 at the moment, which is typical, as many are still out at sea. Over the winter, numbers will begin to grow as more seals come back from their pupping grounds in Orkney to rest and moult here. You can probably guess, based on the terrible pun in the title of this blog, that I am going to talk about turnstones in a bit more depth than some of the other species. But first, there are some other waders, which I really enjoyed watching on the day and I think they deserve some honourable mentions.

Firstly, the unmistakeable curlew (Numenius arquata), with its haunting call – that definitive sound of wilderness. Curlew actually have a rather sad story about them, as they have recently been put on the conservation status Red List, meaning it is of the highest conservation concern and they have undergone huge declines nationally and internationally. This species is the largest wading bird in Europe and 30% of the European population winter in the UK, which is around 125,000 birds. The UK breeding population sits at around 58,500 pairs, which might sound like a lot of birds, but the rate of their decline is alarming and in 20 years from now, that population could be halved.

Despite being easy to please in terms of habitat requirements (long, rough grass and vegetation in moorlands, bogs, and lowland wetlands are all suitable) it is thought that a combination of agricultural intensification of upland farmland and moorland (including drainage and reseeding), coupled with afforestation (in the form of non-native conifer plantations) are having a huge impact on curlew populations. These large waders can be seen all year round and birds seen in summer may well be local breeders from nearby suitable habitat. But in the autumn and winter, their numbers are significantly augmented by Scandinavian curlews, which come here to take advantage of our milder winters and the more readily available food sources.

As I walked further down the estuary, I came across a few bar-tailed godwit (Limosa lapponica), which are currently on the Amber List for conservation concern. The Amber List is used to highlight birds whose conservation status is of moderate concern. In the latest report, the Amber list increased from 96 to 103 species. This is because they either showed an improvement in status and moved off the Red List, or showed a deterioration in numbers – moving from Green to Amber. Bar-tailed godwit have unfortunately moved from Green to Amber and face climate-change related habitat change in their breeding grounds further north. These are long-billed, long-legged wading birds, which can also be seen in early spring, late summer and especially winter, but they do not breed in the UK. My photos show the typical grey-brown winter plumage of these birds, but in spring and summer, they exhibit a vibrant and rich chestnut brown colouration.

Its appearance can often be confused with the curlew, but it is only half the weight and size of a curlew, which tops the wader scales at 1kg and has a wingspan of up to 100cm. In flight, the bar-tailed godwit shows a white patch stretching from the rump up the back, tapering to a point. It breeds in the Scandinavian Arctic and Siberia and hundreds of thousands of them pass through the UK, on their way further south or north, depending on the time of year. But around 54,000 birds overwinter on UK coasts. Both curlew and bar-tailed godwit like to feast on worms, shellfish and shrimps, but the godwit specifically favour marine snails as well. This is why the Ythan’s large mudflats are such a popular feeding venue, as plenty of those marine invertebrates and shellfish can be found on top or underneath the sand surface. Right now is the time of year that their numbers begin to increase on our coasts, so keep your eyes peeled!

Moving further down both in terms of size and the conservation status scale, we have the golden plover (Pluvialis apricaria), which has a fluty and rather mournful call. It’s arguably one of the most beautiful upland breeders in the UK, with a distinctive gold and black summer plumage. I only managed to film one from a distance. If you look at the picture below, you can see how extremely well camouflaged these birds are in their winter plumage, which is a bit duller than their spectacular summer colours. Try to pick it out from the beach pebbles – big hint, it’s right in the middle of frame! Fortunately, this pretty little wader is currently on the Green List, i.e. it is of least conservation concern and long may that continue!

As I got closer to the river mouth, I encountered some redshank (Tringa totanus). This is a delightful little wader and as its name suggests its most distinctive feature is its bright orange-red legs. They have a medium-length bill (much shorter in comparison to the longer billed curlew and bar-tailed godwit), with an orange base to match and grey-brown speckled back and wings with a paler belly. They are quite energetic little waders and actively hunt for live insects, earthworms, crustaceans and molluscs by probing their bills into soil and mud. They’re quite skittish and that characteristic upright bob movement that they do with their head and tail is indicative of being alarmed, so if you see this, it may mean you’re a bit too close for comfort and you might want to slowly move away from the bird to avoid flushing it. Redshanks are an Amber list species and are quite a scarce breeders in the UK. Around 22,000 breed here, mostly on saltmarshes, flood meadows and around lakes. In winter you are much more likely to see them, as their numbers are boosted by Icelandic and Scandinavian birds, which total at around 100,000 visitors each year.

Finally! The species you’ve all been waiting for, the rather understated turnstone (Arenaria interpres). Smaller than redshanks, these active little waders have a mottled appearance with brown or chestnut and black upperparts and brown and white or black and white head patterns. This is in contrast to their white underparts and orange legs. Turnstones spend most of their time creeping and fluttering over rocks, picking out food from under stones. As their name suggests, they will literally ‘turn’ and oftentimes, completely flip over small stones and pebbles along the beach in pursuit of crustaceans, molluscs and insects. This wader has specially evolved to do this and actually has a disproportionately strong and powerful neck for its weight and body size. There’s actually quite a lot of muscle on that neck and the vertebrae is stronger than you’d expect for such a small bird. This is also why it has a surprisingly short bill for a wader, a longer bill would be too fragile and cumbersome for its hunting method, so a stout, slightly upturned and strong bill is what’s required for the job.

These are circumpolar breeders and in winter we receive about 43,000 birds from a mix of locations, ranging from the Canadian Arctic to the Scandinavian Arctic. Therefore, similar to the sanderling, some turnstones from North America may embark on extremely long migrations each year and rather amazingly, some migration paths can lead to an individual flying more than 27,000 km in a year! My photos show these birds in their winter plumage, which is far more grey than their deep chestnut breeding colouration, and for good reason – their habitat changes from season to season. Their breeding habitat is boggy tundra which will comprise of quite brown vegetation, whereas their winter habitat is primarily rocky coastline. Changing plumage with the seasons is associated with changing from breeding to non-breeding activity, but it’s also a necessity to blend in with the surrounding habitat of the current time. Blending in is a good way of keeping out of site from predators and as I mentioned earlier, there’s clearly a lot of them on Ythan estuary, both avian and mammalian.

Turnstones can be found around the UK coastline at any time of year. As with many waders, however, winter is the best time to see them, as their numbers are augmented by birds specifically staying here to take advantage of more abundant food and milder winters. They really like rocky shores as well as sandy, muddy ones and enjoy feeding along rocks covered with seaweed, as well as seawalls and jetties. Although I mentioned that they primarily feed on smaller invertebrates (species you’d expect in a waders diet), they are not fussy eaters, and have been observed feasting on anything ranging from coconut milk to the carrion of large mammals, including humans (Mercer, A. J. 1966)! I will leave you with that rather queasy thought. So next time you are taking a stroll, like I did and see an innocent little turnstone, happily flipping pebbles along the shoreline; just remember, nothing is off the menu!

Thanks for reading till the end and I hope you found it interesting and entertaining. Take care, Danny

Hi folks! It looks like our late summer heatwave has finally come to an end and we can now look forward to the prospect of autumn and all the dramatic natural spectacles which come with that. As things quieten down on the reserve, it’s given me time to reflect on the sheer number of birds which essentially start to vanish now, as they embark on some pretty impressive journeys to warmer climes and better winter fishing grounds.

As most of our regular readers will know, Forvie is home to an eclectic mix of migratory breeding birds such as swallows, our various tern species and the Ospreys, which nest further up the Ythan and fish here regularly. All of these species, among many others, will be beginning massive migrations to the west coast of Africa and some will even travel as far as Antarctica! Fun fact time – the average Arctic tern lives about 30 years and based on very extensive research, will travel some 1.5 million miles during its lifetime. For some human perspective, that’s like doing three round trips between the Earth and the Moon! What incredible lives they lead. Is there a method to their madness? Yes, because of course winter time over here is Antarctic summer, and it is thought that by migrating to Antarctic waters, they are optimising the amount of available light for fishing.

The extra light literally illuminates fish and insects beneath the ocean surface, which is essential for successful fishing and for aiding the high calorific requirements of these fast paced birds. Similarly, this is why ospreys migrate to places like Senegal, again, because there is more available sunlight there during the winter months, so it makes catching fish considerably easier. Also, even in the UK, where winters tend to be milder, lakes and lochs can occasionally freeze over in harsher spells of weather and this would make catching fish extremely difficult and dangerous for ospreys. I saw one fishing on the Ythan enroute to a seal count on Thursday, and I do wonder if it’ll be the last one that I’ll see this season. Wishing all of our summer migrants the very best of luck on what can be pretty perilous journeys across vast expanses of ocean. What incredible birds they are.

On the flip side, this is also that exciting time of anticipation, as we wait for the first skeins of geese and other winter migrants, to arrive from the north and east. I’ve already heard small flocks of pink-footed geese flying overhead from their breeding grounds in Iceland, Spitsbergen and Greenland. That visceral and haunting sound of the geese reassuring each other as they fly on – always makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, it’s like a primeval instinct or response to a stimuli; telling me that autumn has arrived and it’s time to prepare for harder times ahead.

The Ythan estuary provides a perfect wintering ground and ‘stop-off’ point for many other species too, a bit like a warm holiday spa for whooper swans and vast numbers of waders and ducks, which have access to an ‘all you can eat’ buffet on the mudflats, stubble fields, flooded dune slacks and lochs in this area. Short-eared owls are among just a few species to keep a look out for. They do breed in the UK (mostly in our uplands and moorlands), but are very dependent on vole population cycles and subsequently, their populations do ‘boom’ and ‘bust’ depending on the vole population. During some autumns, Short-eared owl populations become inflated here, as birds from the nearby continent stop over, to cache in on a bumper harvest of voles. Could this be a good autumn for Short-eared owls? Only time will tell. But I really hope it is, as it’s a species I’ve not managed to photograph and film yet.

It’s also a good time to look out for interesting natural phenomena and this week I wanted to delve into super tides. Tides are enhanced by the autumn equinox and are governed by the gravitational pull of the moon and, to a lesser extent, the sun. Because the sun and moon go through different alignment, this affects the size of the tides. When the gravitational pull of the sun and moon combine, we see larger than average tides, which are often referred as spring or ‘super’ tides. When these gravitational pulls offset each other, smaller tides known as neap tides develop. We see two periods of spring and neap tides roughly every month. Some spring tides are higher than others, because tidal forces are strengthened if the moon is closest to Earth in its elliptical orbit or ‘perigee’. Tide forces are also enhanced when the sun and the moon are directly over the equator. For the sun, this happens around 21st March or September (the equinoxes). Spring tides are always higher at this time of year. The moon’s orbit also takes it above and below the equator over a period of 27 days. Just as with the Sun, the tide generating forces are at their greatest when the moon is directly overhead at the equator.

Very large spring tides occur when these astronomical factors coincide. Approximately every 4.5 years the moon is closest to the Earth, and is also overhead at the equator, at either the March or September equinox. Occasionally, these exaggerated tidal conditions cause water levels to be half a meter higher than normal spring tides. But the weather can have a greater impact than even these largest of tides. Strong winds can pile up water onto coastlines, and low pressure systems can also cause a localised rise in sea level. Typically the difference in water level, caused by the weather, can be between 20 and 30cm, but it can be much bigger. With the onset of climate chaos, we may witness more extreme weather events. Unfortunately, it’s not a case of ‘if’ but a case of ‘when’.

Rolling on to a lighter note, I recently had the privilege of assisting distance learning students from SRUC and staff from the JNCC (Joint Nature Conservation Committee) on a couple site visits to the reserve. Both events were a real success and it helped that the weather was very pleasant and everyone had the added bonus of spotting our grey seals. I’m really glad that the students and staff got the most out of their visits and I hope to see some familiar faces on the reserve again soon. Hope you enjoyed the read and you’ll be hearing from me again next week. Take care, Danny.