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.

Without wishing to jinx the rest of the autumn, the first few days of September at Forvie have been very pleasant indeed. Unseasonably high temperatures and unusually light winds have combined to produce the sort of days we often found ourselves wishing for throughout the cool and damp latter part of the summer. These are days to savour: being out and about on the Reserve in these conditions feels like being away on holiday, without actually being away on holiday.

Even the wildlife has conspired to give the place a balmy southern flavour this week. Hot on the heels of last week’s Marsh Harrier at Sand Loch, this week produced another individual – this time a lovely fresh-plumaged youngster, as opposed to the adult male we hosted last week. Viewed against a flawless blue sky, with a dazzling heat-shimmer over the heath below, this could have been a scene from somewhere in south-east Europe rather than north-east Scotland. All that was lacking from the experience was a bowl of olives and a glass of retsina.

Nearby on the estuary, things also had a strangely Mediterranean feel. Our first wader-and-wildfowl census of the 2023/24 season produced, among other things, a minimum of seven Little Egrets. Just a few years ago this would have seemed preposterous, but it’s a sign of the times: not just the unusually warm early autumn we’re experiencing, but the ongoing effects of climate change. This is a southern species which is rapidly taking advantage of our warming climate to expand its range northwards, and these lively little white herons are likely to become an ever-more-familiar sight in our part of the world as time marches onwards.

In last week’s instalment, Catriona spoke of the large influx of Red Admiral butterflies in progress. This has continued unabated into the second week of September, with a smaller but still significant number of Peacock butterflies also involved. While the largest gatherings of both species tend to occur at stands of thistles, or at nectar-rich garden plants such as Buddleia or Garden Privet, smaller numbers can be found almost anywhere just now. They can often be seen nectaring at the Sea Rocket along Forvie beach: a reminder that these delicate creatures are actually powerful fliers capable of crossing expanses of water such as the North Sea.

Associated with this mass movement of butterflies is an equally-impressive immigration of Silver Y moths. Although smaller and less showy than the Red Admirals, these are just as capable of undertaking incredible non-stop flights – and just like the butterflies, they are also in need of some serious refuelling by the time they make landfall upon our coast. Look out for these in the same places you’re finding Red Admirals, and keep your eyes peeled for a medium-sized brownish moth hovering on a blur of wings, pausing to sip nectar with its long proboscis.

If you’re lucky enough to see one sitting still for a moment, look for the diagnostic silvery marking on each forewing which gives the moth its name. This is visible even in my hopelessly over-exposed photo below.

There’s a popular misconception that all moths are dull brown things. Even though this is way off the mark, you could almost be forgiven for believing it at this time of the year. For while the moths of midsummer include some attractive, bright and even gaudy species, the lineup in autumn is of much more sober appearance. We ran the domestic moth trap on a calm and overcast night during the week, and it’s fair to describe the resultant catch as a ‘rhapsody in brown’. Though as an self-confessed enthusiast of rare birds such as warblers, I would argue that all the cool stuff in life fits into this category. Looks aren’t everything after all…

Besides, a lack of bright colours doesn’t necessarily mean a lack of intrinsic beauty. The individuals in this week’s catch possessed some subtly lovely patterns and markings – which in each case function as a kind of fingerprint, by which the individual species can be identified. Trying to sort out the intricacies of a number of similar species is a difficult task, but a rewarding one nonetheless. And in any case, the moths’ names are nothing short of poetry – check out the following…

The beauty of the moth trap is that the catch is unharmed in the process: all the moths can be released after inspection and identification, whereupon they can resume their lives. Observing live individuals is, of course, the best way to learn about and appreciate any aspect of wildlife. Sometimes, however, we come across new or interesting species in less fortunate circumstances, such as this little fella below.

I came across this rather sorry sight on one of the footpaths in North Forvie recently. Finding dead shrews on the paths here is actually a very commonplace experience – Common Shrews are well-known for their aggressive nature towards one another, and fights to the death are by no means unusual. However, a second glance showed that this was clearly not the usual Common Shrew: its large size, dark coat and white underside instead identified it as a Water Shrew – a new species for Forvie for this observer at least!

This was followed up by another new species for the Reserve for me, in the form of an unusual plant growing beside the footpath north of Hackley Bay. This was quite easily identified as Weld or Dyer’s Rocket (these names are used interchangeably), but finding it in this location was something of a surprise. A bit of lightweight detective work found that the only other records for the region were a couple of recent ones in Aberdeen city, and a handful of old records for north-west Aberdeenshire, the most recent of which were mid-twentieth-century. So an odd one to find at Forvie!

Interestingly, the plant had appeared immediately next to a stretch of footpath that was constructed last winter. This could be a clue as to its origin. It’s possible that it was imported as a seed along with the roadstone used in the path construction – Weld is a plant of disturbed ground, with stone quarries providing ideal habitat for it. However, it’s not known to grow well in acidic soil conditions such that we have at Forvie, so how long it survives here remains to be seen. It will most likely prove to be a short-term interloper rather than a potential colonist, but it’s an interesting one in any case!

A couple of nuggets of bird migration with which to finish this week’s blog then. First up, a hint of east in the wind on Wednesday, allied with some overnight mist and murk into Thursday, produced a long-distance traveller from the Continent in the shape of an Icterine Warbler. This appeared in the garden here at author’s HQ, immediately adjacent to the Reserve, where its green-and-yellow plumage blended perfectly with the green-and-yellow foliage – making it somewhat difficult to see to say the least. A scarce species in Scotland at the best of times, Forvie has a good track record for this and other ‘drift migrants’ from the east, and it’s always exciting to catch up with unusual species from faraway places. It connects us to places that we might never visit ourselves – and in this case without even having to leave the house!

The other noteworthy piece of migration action was the return of the first Pink-footed Geese from Iceland. Always a big milestone in the year, their arrival is keenly anticipated each autumn – although this time around it did seem incongruous what with the summery weather and the accompanying clouds of Swallows and House Martins. A true ‘north meets south’ moment.

I have long rated September as one of the most enjoyable months of the year at Forvie, and this past week has been a good illustration of why. It really does offer the best of all worlds, with interest from all points of the compass.

Time then for me to sign off, get outside, and make the best of it. See you out there.

Well, that’s August in the rear-view mirror and it’s officially feeling like autumn now. You are really starting to see the shift from summer to autumn – there’s a heavy dew in the morning, it’s dark by 9 o’ clock at night and, even on a warm, sunny day, you need a jacket when the sun goes behind a cloud. But it’s also that time of year when summer seems determined to give us a late flush of life and colour, as if to say ‘don’t write me off just yet’. Later-flowering plant, like the heather and devil’s bit scabious are in full bloom, turning the moor and path edges purple.

And it’s not just the plants that are supplying the colours. Butterflies are suddenly plentiful, with a new batch of peacocks and red admirals freshly-emerged….or newly-arrived on migration. Walk along the cliff path or through the dunes and you may even see them coming in off the sea- a quite remarkable sight. It’s hard enough to get your head around something like a goldcrest or willow warbler migrating, but for something as delicate as a butterfly, it seems impossible. Yet another everyday miracle in nature.

Red admirals especially are hard to miss at the moment. They seem to be on every flower, from the sea rocket on the beach to buddleias in gardens. I’d often wondered why ‘red admiral’ and had conjured myself an explanation, assuming some Victorian naturalist had thought their patterns resembled an admiral’s uniform. But no, it’s a corruption of the old name ‘red admirable’…which, in many ways, suits them better as they are indeed an admirable sight. However, it’s easier to say ‘admiral’ than ‘admirable’, so the name gradually drifted into common usage. It’s not the only member of our British wildlife that got its name because it was easier to say – ‘a nadder’ became ‘an adder’ and a ‘stare’ or stare-ling’ became a ‘starling’.

We also saw our first painted lady of the year on Wednesday. These butterflies migrate, over several generations, from North Africa and usually don’t arrive on our shores until late summer. In some years, there can be a massive influx but with only having seen the one so far, we don’t know yet if this is going to be a ‘painted lady year’ or not. The last big year for these was in 2019, where we estimate there were over 10,000 on the reserve. It’s always quite a thrill when it does turn out to be a big year for them and you are seeing clouds of butterflies on every flowering plant.

Away from the butterflies, the other sights of note this week were a nice male marsh harrier over Sand Loch and the high number of auks – mostly guillemots – in the estuary. It’s funny, when you see a bird out-of-context, it takes your brain a while to catch up. Over a reedbed in East Anglia, I’d have gone ‘marsh harrier’ instantly but here, I was thinking red kite or buzzard …until Daryl finally called it out and I had that ‘eureka’ moment!

As for the auks in the estuary, usually, seeing these here is bad news – it means the birds are sickly or oiled. But this fortunately doesn’t seem to be the case this time round, it looks like the birds are pursuing small fish into the estuary. This theory is backed up by the fact there are also flocks of terns and gulls feeding here and, usually, by this time of year, terns on the estuary are few and far between. The birds also appear healthy, feeding actively, rather than lethargic or sleepy.

We’ve also been seeing lots of auks and gulls feeding very close inshore, right into the surf. I’d love to know what’s going on beneath the waves, what they are feeding on- maybe a run of herring sprat or something? Either way, we are grateful they seem to be close inshore to find food rather than because they are ill.

But the presence of all these birds is still attracting pirates. Last week, we shared some of Ron’s amazing pictures of Arctic Skuas in action, a sort of avian cross between Jack Sparrow and a peregrine falcon. Both the skuas and Ron have been out on the estuary again this week and he’s kindly shared some more pictures with us this week. They are real action shots and all this takes place almost too fast for the eye to follow, as both skua and tern dodge, dive and weave in an aerial dog-fight. Terns are pretty good fliers but even they can be out-flown by a skua, To see the action captured in the pictures is a real treat and, yet again, our grateful thanks to Ron for sharing these pictures.

This is also a wildlife spectacle you can see on your own doorstep. Why not take yourself down to the Ythan mouth this weekend (Newburgh side, to save disturbing the seals on the north) and see if you can’t spot this happening for yourself?

The above title probably sounds a bit like a trailer for Newsnight or some such current-affairs vehicle, but it was the neatest solution I could come up with to unite the disparate elements that make up this week’s blog. As summer segues seamlessly into early autumn, the Reserve remains a lively place to both work and visit, with a diverse-bordering-on-eccentric range of duties to be performed, and an ever-changing cast of wildlife to match.

One recurring theme on the to-do-list is to deal with invasive species. We’ve documented on these pages our battles with Pirri-pirri Bur at Foveran Links, and Himalayan Balsam along the Foveran Burn; these are both long-term endeavours, and very much part of the annual routine. However, just recently we’ve tackled a new kid on the block: Pearly Everlasting.

This attractive plant is another garden escapee, and was noted growing in the dunes of South Forvie along the line of the barrier fence during high summer. Further investigation was carried out after the ternery season had ended, whereupon we had a little more spare time, and this revealed a number of well-established patches in the surrounding dunes. Thus the decision was taken to remove the plant before it became a potential problem: the last thing we need at Forvie is another Pirri-pirri-style situation. I must admit that the name ‘Everlasting’ gives me the cold sweats in this respect, but time will tell I suppose.

Anyway, upon hand-pulling the Everlasting stems, we came to realise that it was a popular nectar source for insects (this is often the case with invasive non-native plants, and is one of the secrets to their success at the expense of the native flora). Butterflies were well-represented, such as the Grayling in the photo above, and the stunning Small Copper pictured below.

This tiny and exquisite butterfly has been a personal favourite of mine since I was two feet tall, when one landed momentarily on my outstretched hand during a family holiday. The four-year-old budding naturalist immediately thought this was surely the most beautiful thing in the world. Decades later, and my opinion of the species hasn’t changed much at all; an encounter with one always raises a smile.

Seeing one Small Copper is an undoubted treat, so to then go on and find a mating pair was extra special, and a real stroke of luck.

Things then got even better, when a closer look at the apparent male of the pair revealed it was of the variety caeruleopunctata – a Latin word literally meaning ‘blue spots’. Look at the hindwing of the uppermost butterfly in the picture below and you’ll hopefully see why.

The ‘standard’ Small Copper lacks the blue dots altogether, having only the coppery-orange band on the hindwing. The caeruleopunctata form, however, is one of a staggering 140 aberrations – unusual, naturally-occurring variations from the normal colour and pattern – known to occur in the Small Copper. This was the first time I had ever encountered one of the caeruleopunctata individuals at Forvie; you never stop learning and finding new stuff in this line of work.

Onto pirates now, and a while ago we posted a photo by Ron Macdonald of one of the Arctic Skuas present on the estuary, where they are currently making a good living stealing fish from the terns and gulls. Having thought Ron had done well to get any sort of photo of such a fast-flying and dashing bird, he then excelled himself in typical fashion by capturing the following series of photos. Look closely at these and you can perhaps begin to appreciate the skua’s aerial prowess and determination, and the hapless Black-headed Gull’s annoyance at having had its breakfast stolen from under its nose. And while I don’t condone larceny, you can’t help but admire the skua: surely the Captain Jack Sparrow of the natural world.

Birds are currently a great source of interest on the Reserve, with the migration season now picking up pace. A brief easterly blow last weekend delivered a scatter of drift migrants from the Continent to our coastline, supplementing the locally-bred Whitethroats and Willow Warblers already plying the scrub, hedgerows and gardens of our local area. Both the Scottish-bred individuals and their Continental counterparts are bound, eventually, for Africa; here the survivors of this long and perilous journey will spend the winter, before doing the whole thing again in reverse next spring.

The diminutive Willow Warblers in particular are a joy to observe. Lively and restless, these little bundles of energy seem to approach life with a great deal of enthusiasm. Here at author’s HQ we often see them bathing at the garden pond, an activity undertaken with such zeal and vigour that their immaculate sherbet-lemon plumage is soon transformed into a soggy and bedraggled mess. But how they appear to enjoy it!

Meanwhile the Swallows and House Martins are beginning to congregate on the telegraph lines, looking like musical notation. A sure and evocative sign of the impending autumn, and of their own impending exodus. The careful observer can easily pick out the recently-fledged youngsters alongside their parents and older siblings from earlier broods, and you can’t help but wonder what lies ahead for these newly-qualified flyers. Forvie to South Africa: what a way to test out your new flying skills.

Minibeasts are the final station stop on today’s journey though. We recently welcomed back former Forvie staffer Caitlin in her capacity with insect charity Buglife, for an invertebrate-themed public event.

As well as running several moth traps – an ever-popular fixture among our visitors both young and old – Caitlin also oversaw a minibeast hunt in the Forvie Centre environs that produced some remarkable results.

A series of small holes among the masonry outside the front door were found to be home to a population of Field Digger Wasps. These are solitary rather than social wasps, with each individual creating and servicing its own series of nest chambers. The Field Digger Wasp is a predator of flies, catching them with lightning-quick reactions and inserting them into its nest chambers for the developing larvae to feed upon. Hearing about this was fascinating enough, but we were then lucky enough to witness one making a catch. This was the stuff of wildlife documentaries: the wasp mantling its prey reminded me irresistibly of a Lion standing triumphantly over a felled Wildebeest.

And that wasn’t all. The same bit of slightly-crumbly masonry was also found to be home to a leaf-cutter bee species – which in turn is parasitized by another solitary wasp species, the stunningly beautiful Ruby-tailed Wasp. A true gem, and a great example of the fascinating wildlife present under our very feet that most of us never realise is actually there.

To be fair, it’s going to be tough to beat that this week. A good time then to sign off. Till next time!

Forvie is particularly renowned for its breeding terns, seabirds, waders and seals, which often soak up the limelight here. So I thought it would be interesting to talk about some of our equally fascinating but perhaps less talked about species, which share this habitat.

Let’s kick-off with some insects. The Six-spot burnet moth (Zygaena filipendulae) is a relatively common and yet eye-catching feature of the reserve in summer. We’re approaching the end of their flying season, which typically starts in June and ends in mid to late August, so this is probably your last chance to see them before next summer. This moth is quite unusual, because it’s a day-flying species, and characterised with a slow, fluttering wingbeat pattern. Keep your eyes peeled for them when walking past thistles and harebells, as they particularly like to feed on their flowers for nectar. The sand dunes and dune heath are an especially good habitat for them, which is why they are abundant here.

This beautiful moth is easily identified, because it has long, narrow, glossy wings with red spots, but can be quite easily confused with the similarly coloured cinnabar moth (Tyria jacobaeae). Until recently, this was unlikely to happen, because historically Forvie was located well north of the cinnabar breeding range. But the onset of climate change is gradually pushing their range further north, and now the two species co-exist here. This isn’t an issue for either species, as they happily coexist elsewhere and generally don’t compete for the same food sources; cinnabar caterpillars (as shown in one of Daryl’s recent blogs), gorge themselves on ragwort, whereas burnet caterpillars tend to feed on bird’s-foot-trefoil flowers instead. If you’re very lucky, you may spot cocooned pupae burnet caterpillars on grass stems.

The reserve is home to many species of butterfly, but two particularly unmistakeable gems are the common blue (Polyommatus icarus) and dark green fritillary (Speyeria aglaja). The common blue, like the burnet, is also found in coastal sand dune heaths. Males are very brightly coloured and rather conspicuous, but females are more elusive and harder to spot. The species remains widespread in the UK, but there have been local declines within its range (as with many formerly numerous species). Common bird’s-foot-trefoil is popular among many pollinators here and is the blue’s main food plant – so it’s good there’s so much growing throughout the reserve. The dark green fritillary is a large and powerful butterfly, with a wing span range of 63-69 mm, and can be easily identified by its signature rapid flying style. Adults have similar food and habitat preferences to the other moth and butterfly species mentioned in this blog, but their caterpillars specifically feast on common dog-violet and marsh violet, in wetter, more acidic locations like Forvie.

We’re also fast approaching the end of the dark-green fritillaries’ flying season, so the next week to two weeks are probably your last chance to spot them until next year. The common blue on the other hand, generally has a longer flying season, and may be seen as late as early October in more southerly parts of its range. So there’s a good chance you will still see the odd one into the beginning of September at this latitude.

This is probably a good point to progress up the trophic ladder onto some of our resident vertebrate species. One of the rarer species to be (technically) found on the reserve, is the common lizard (Zootoca vivipara), which is our only resident reptile. This species can be found basking on the Newburgh Seal Beach board walk on a sunny morning or afternoon. In fact, I’ve encountered several while conducting seal counts in better weather.

Board walks, stone walls, logs and rocks, provide perfect basking opportunities for these cold blooded reptiles. Basking is important, because being ectothermic means that they can’t heat themselves up naturally, and therefore, they rely on the sun’s rays to warm their blood up. Warmer blood means that they can move around faster, which is vital for catching prey, reproduction and evading predators. This is why it’s quite common to see them basking in the morning, but they will retreat to the shade if the sun becomes too hot.

They only occur at the southern end of the reserve, south of the Ythan River and have never been found on the sand dune heath to the north, despite it being a perfect habitat for them (although apparently one has been found in a local garden in Collieston once before). Indeed, they are found in a variety of habitats including woodland, brownfield sites, heathland and larger gardens. Being a diurnal species means that they tend to spend their nights beneath piles of rocks or logs, or in small underground burrows. These safe havens become their hibernation sites in winter. No one is really sure why the species hasn’t made an inroads to the main part reserve, but it is thought that a combination of roads, quite intensive farmland and the Ythan River itself, present as physical barriers to the species’ spread into our sand dune heath.

Some readers will be very surprised to learn that like the adder (Vipera berus), the common lizard is ‘viviparous’, meaning they give birth to live young, rather than laying eggs. Pregnant females will incubate eggs inside their bodies, which is another reason why they need to bask in the sun. As with adders, this is thought to be an adaptation to living in colder climates, where laying eggs on the ground, sand or underground, would not provide sufficient heat for gestating offspring. Usually by August, they give birth to between 4 and 11 live young, each of which can measure up to 5cm in length. Once they reach maturity, they can grow up to 15cm in length and they can live for up to 12 years in the wild.

Common lizards vary in colouration, but are typically dark brown with an intricate pattern of lines running the length of the body and are often found with a signature dark brown streak running the length of their backs. Males tend to be spottier with yellow or orange mottled undersides, whereas females are stripier in general. Unfortunately, they are the perfect snack for many species of predators ranging from pheasants to feral cats and buzzards. But these adaptable and resilient lizards do have one trick up their sleeve, as they can shed their tails when caught by a predator, which continues to wriggle and keep the predator’s attention, while the lizard escapes. Ingenious! But painful for the lizard! But still, better to be alive I suppose.

There appears to be a long term decline in the UK population, which isn’t helped by the excessive number of pheasants that are released into the countryside for shooting each year (up to 47 million to be precise – although COVID-19 has recently halted this), and it’s well known that common lizards are a particularly prized delicacy for those gamebirds. Due to this alarming news, common lizards are now listed on the UK Biodiversity Action Plan, so if you do see one, please report it to Amphibian and Reptile Conservation, as you’ll be contributing to their vital research into the conservation status of this species.

Some readers might be surprised to hear that ravens (Corvus corax) reside on the reserve. Keep an eye out for a large, black bird, especially when walking along the cliffs towards Collieston. The raven is a species of ‘corvid’, which means it is a member of the crow family. It’s massive, with a wingspan of up to 150cm, nearly 70cm long and can weigh 1.5kg – making it the biggest member of the crow family and even larger than a common buzzard. Unlike other crows, its tail will appear diamond-shaped when in flight. Oftentimes, you’ll hear a raven before seeing it. Listen out for a fairly low pitched cronking ‘cronk-cronk’ type of call, an unmistakeable and atmospheric sound of the wild. They are not fussy eaters and will quite happily consume a wide array of prey ranging from carrion, mammals, eggs, small birds, insects and worms.

The intelligence of this bird has been revered for millennia. In Norse mythology, Odin, all father of the Gods, owned two ravens, Huginn and Muninn. Huginn (which translates to ‘thought’) helped Odin by bringing back news, while the other raven, Muninn (which translates to ‘memory’), reminded him of important things that he had forgotten. Science is now backing up this age-old common knowledge. A recent scientific study has claimed that by four months old, a Raven will have developed full-blown cognitive skills, and by maturity their intelligence can rival that of adult great apes. I find that quite mind boggling, but not that surprising – they’re brainy birds. Another research project has indicated that the problem solving capabilities of ravens (and most corvids) are on par with that of seven year old children. Wow! Even more remarkable, is the broad scope of their intelligence, especially when it comes to problem solving and their sense of consciousness and imagination.

Now, although eider ducks (Somateria mollissima) are probably considered one of the most iconic and more talked about species here at Forvie, there are some quite surprising facts and some very positive news that I’d like to share with our readers. The Eider is the UK’s heaviest duck, weighing in at a whopping 2.1 kg, and despite its quite dumpy and cumbersome appearance, is actually its fastest flying, hitting speeds of 70 mph! Females create beautiful nests with ‘eiderdown’. These are soft, fluffy, downy feathers taken from underneath the tougher exterior breast feathers and layered on the bottom of the nest, to provide insulation for the eggs and ducklings when they hatch.

It’s a true sea duck and its particular partiality towards coastal molluscs, has brought it into conflict with mussel farmers in the past. Fortunately, this isn’t an issue for them on the Ythan anymore. However, as many of our readers will already know, eiders have undergone massive declines at Forvie for decades. In 1991 the Ythan had over 5000, which was Scotland’s largest population at the time. Fast forward to present day, and the reserve only yields around a 100 nests annually, most of which occur within the confines of the Ternery and this isn’t a coincidence.

The electric fence which protects our breeding terns from mammalian predators, has inadvertently become a refuge for breeding eiders. Foxes (Vulpes vulpes) are a significant predator of the eider duck, and being opportunists, will happily take unguarded eggs or ducklings, and unfortunately, will happily go for a duck which is stuck in the tern fence. This is one of the reasons why we have to conduct daily fence checks of the ternery during the breeding season – to make sure no birds have become tangled in it. Predation is just one of several, combined, underlying causes for their decline, which are unclear and complex. Other probable causes are disturbance, climate change, changes in land use; which might affect food availability (and more specifically mollusc size and abundance in the Ythan) and pollution in the wider catchment area.

This decline has become the accepted norm in recent years, and yet, despite the unprecedented impacts of avian flu on so many birds across Scotland (including most of our tern species sadly), in an unusual twist of fate, this year has actually been the best breeding season for Eider ducks in over 20 years at Forvie. We counted 340 ducklings in our final estuary count of the summer and the duckling population peaked at 358 earlier in the season. So it’s not all bad news for our breeding birds – every cloud has a silver lining.

An increasingly common sight throughout the Scottish lowlands is the roe deer. They are so strikingly elegant in appearance and are now found throughout mainland Scotland, including towns and cities, with sufficient green space. Some even live close to Aberdeen city centre, so it’s hardly surprising that Forvie provides perfect habitat for them. Historically, this is a species primarily associated with woodland cover, but in recent years, it’s become increasingly accustomed to open ground. So it’s not unusual to spot these deer grazing in the sand dunes, where they seem to be pretty content. These medium sized deer browse for favoured herbs, dwarf-shrubs and tree shoots, and can occur in very high densities, at least one in every 10 sq. km. Indeed, their recent population surge has started to cause significant damage to forestry and agricultural crops, and unfortunately the incidences of head-on road collisions involving roes has increased as well.

Adult males or ‘bucks’ are territorial, and thus generally solitary, from February through to mid-August, but may form small groups in winter. An adult female or a ‘doe’ is accompanied by her fawns or ‘kids’ for most of the year, but will actively drive them out before giving birth again. A doe usually gives birth to one or two kids, which are born in May or June, so any we see now, will be at least several months old. The young are born with a perfectly camouflaged and spotted coat, which renders them almost invisible to predators when they lie still.

We hope to see you at our film screening of ‘The Bough Breaks’ – a rewilding documentary by Mousehole Films on Thursday 24^th August at 7:30pm – plus Q&A with the filmmakers. If you fancy coming along, contact the Forvie Office to book tickets ASAP, as there are only a few seats left. If you can’t make it to the screening and would still like to see the film, there will be other opportunities to see it in Aberdeenshire and other parts of Scotland in the coming months. Cheers, Danny