At the time of writing here at Forvie, we find ourselves sitting in the calm before the storm, in the literal sense. According to the various forecasts to which we regularly subscribe, Storm Amy is rolling inexorably towards us, sleeves rolled up and rolling-pin in hand, ready to give the North-east a proper pummelling. Yep, more high winds on the way, folks; I can barely contain my excitement.

Autumn storms are part and parcel of life here on the Scottish east coast. The coming and going of each one – and these days most of them seem to have names, for whatever reason – always gets us wondering what they may or may not bring in terms of wildlife. For instance, a big onshore blow and a heavy swell may result in some interesting marine life being washed ashore, bringing us into contact with creatures we wouldn’t otherwise see. A blast of north-easterly carries with it the chance of excitingly exotic rare birds from Siberia, while a north-wester might bring a rush of wild geese and swans from Iceland. A big northerly gale, meanwhile, may bring seabirds from the Arctic to our shores. Hence the naturalist tends to keep a keen eye on the weather charts at this time of the year.

I shall report back in due course as to whether Amy brings us anything of interest, but in all truth it looks unlikely. As the centre of the storm passes to the north-west of us, following the familiar (and relentless) Atlantic storm track, the predominant winds here will be from the westerly quarter, the least ‘useful’ wind direction for delivering interesting wildlife to our east-facing coast. But you never know of course, and as former Forvie warden Dave Pickett was fond of saying, “It’s the hope that kills you!”

We actually spent a couple of days this week away from our beloved east coast. At Forvie, we’re part of the wider North Operations team in NatureScot, and it’s fair to say we’re a scattered family – the North Ops patch extends from St Cyrus in the south to Hermaness (at the very top of Shetland) in the north. Thus opportunities to meet up in person are rare and precious, and we were grateful to our area management and admin colleagues for making it happen this time around.

The venue was the lovely Dundreggan Rewilding Centre, operated by conservation charity Trees for Life, and tucked away in the hills not far from the shores of Loch Ness. This was a real change of scene for the Forvie team (I mean there were actual trees there for starters), and I must admit it was nice not having to lean into a 40mph wind for once. We were treated to a guided tour of a small part of the estate, where efforts are being made to restore the once-wooded landscape of the Scottish uplands, as well as a fascinating peek into the tree nursery at the nerve-centre of operations. You can read more about Dundreggan here.

Back on the home patch, we received an interesting communication via e-mail this week. A few weeks ago, Catriona noticed a Curlew on the estuary which appeared to be wearing a Darvic ring (i.e. a plastic leg-ring bearing a large and easily-legible code, allowing it to be read in the field through binoculars or telescope). Having the presence of mind to capture a photo (and a lens long enough for the job), she noted down the details with a view to finding out more.

Having submitted the sighting via the indefatigable Raymond Duncan from Grampian Ringing Group, Catriona received a message to say that ‘her’ Curlew, ring combination ‘White K4U’, had come all the way from Finland. Ringed as a chick in June 2024, it had travelled just over 1,000 miles in a west-south-westerly direction to end up here on our very own Ythan Estuary. An excellent record, and an example of how even familiar species like the Curlew may have travelled further than you think in order to be here.

Speaking of long-distance travellers, this week has seen a substantial influx of geese into our area. In contrast to the itinerant flocks of feral Canada and Greylag Geese that spent the late summer wandering around the region, these are genuine wild geese from Iceland, Greenland and beyond. The bulk of the numbers are made up of Pink-footed Geese, our ‘stock’ wild goose species here in the North-east, whose babbling calls provide the soundtrack to life here in the autumn and winter. On Thursday morning around 2,500 could be found bathing and roosting on the water and mud of the estuary, before repairing to the nearby stubble fields for a spot of lunch.

Among the throngs of Pinks were a substantial number of Barnacle Geese, with perhaps as many as 150 present on Thursday morning. Like the majority of the Pinks, it’s likely they will stay and feed up for a few days in our area before continuing southwards, using Forvie as a service station on the long journey to their wintering grounds.

Barnacle Geese are remarkably beautiful when seen close-up, their plumage intricately barred in black, white and grey, and I often think they must be a contender for the title of ‘world’s most handsome monochrome species’; a Black-throated Diver in summer plumage would certainly give them a run for their money though.

For all the winter arrivals, there are still some tardy summer visitors yet to depart. For most of this week, a handful of young Swallows have been present around Sand Loch and Collieston village, procrastinating about the long journey to South Africa that lies ahead of them. Seeing Swallows and wild geese occupying the same tract of sky always seems somewhat incongruous – though it’s awesome to think that you can effectively see wildlife from the Cape to the Arctic Circle at the same time on your own patch.

The remaining vestiges of summer are slowly and reluctantly fading away now, with just a few sorry Red Campion flowers remaining in bloom…

…meaning that any late-flying insects are forced to turn their hand (or proboscis) to other sources of food, such as the fruit provided by hedges, copses and village gardens.

Good luck to these delicate insects when it comes to surviving the oncoming storm. I’m away to lash myself to the mainmast now – see you again next week!

Autumn. Keats’s ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’, a glowing elegy to the turning of the year. And, like his poem, we are noticing that that the ‘gathering swallows twittering in the skies’ are now thinning out. They’ve discussed the way to Africa and are gone, and a lot of the birds we’re seeing here now have likely come from further north. They’re not ‘our’ swallows or martins, that built mud nest under the eaves and swooped joyfully after insects all summer – they’re travellers, passing through, on their epic, yearly migration.

Autumn and spring are migration seasons, and never is the passage of birds more pronounced than at those times. It’s perhaps harder to notice the disappearance of birds like swallows… you might glance at the sky and think ‘hmmm, haven’t seen a swallow for a week…’ but first arrivals are far easier to register. Foremost among those are the pink-footed geese, who arrive in great ‘V’s from Iceland and whose ‘wink-wink’ calls immediately announce their presence. Some people love to see them back, but for other folk, the return of the geese definitely marks the end of summer and the slide into winter. However you feel about it, it’s just one way migration can be a marker for the changing of the seasons.

While the geese are easy to notice, it’s mind-blowing how much movement in the natural world there is at this time of year, most of which slips by unnoticed. You might notice one young willow warbler in the garden, making its first trip south, but how many more sneak by unnoticed?

We also wonder, for every flock of waders we count on the estuary, how many other birds pass through when we’re not standing there with our binoculars and hand tallies? The mud of the Ythan estuary is full of invertebrates for hungry wading birds, so we’re an important service-station-type fuelling stop for waders, who are on their way south from Arctic breeding grounds. Dunlin, ringed plover, sanderling, golden plover, curlew, lapwing, oystercatchers and redshank are just some of the waders that pass through here every autumn.

And that’s just the birds we can actually see! Go outside on a still autumn night and listen – you may hear geese, or swans, or the high-pitched ‘tseeeeep’ of a redwing – but what else is moving up there in the darkness? Birds often travel by night – the stars and moon help them to navigate, and predators like peregrine falcons are sound asleep. We’ve been aware for a lot of years that this happens, but advances in technology mean we can detect more birds by call in the night time. Known as ‘noc-mig’ (nocturnal migration), it involves pointing an audio recorder at the sky all night to pick up the calls of any passing birds. Clever computer programmes then convert these to sonograms, and match their patterns to known bird calls. While this sort of thing is black magic to a complete Luddite like me, it’s produced some fascinating records of both rare and common birds.

‘Noc-migging’ has also picked up things like Sandwich terns passing over land masses. We usually think of ‘our’ terns as being totally bound to the sea, but they think nothing of migrating overland. Yes, some of our terns will go up into the Moray Firth – but they’ll then cut through the Great Glen to the west coast. Or nip across the narrow ‘waist’ of Scotland between the Forth and Clyde.

And migration’s not just about birds. Up in the hills, the deer move from the high tops to the valleys, while our seal numbers start to pick up as some come here to breed in between October and Christmas. It’s easy not to think of seals as ‘migrants’ but there is a definite seasonal pattern to their movements, with fewer coming here in summer and the numbers peaking in early spring post-breeding.

Autumn – August and September especially – are also good months to spot a Minke whale offshore. While you can see them at any time, summer and autumn are the best times to spot one as they follow mackerel and herring into our waters.

At the other end of the scale size-wise, insects migrate too. We’ve often written of the wonders of painted lady migration, but other insects migrate too. Red admirals are often the last butterfly you’ll see before winter sets in. Some do overwinter here, in a shed or some other frost-free place, but many will migrate south to warmer climates. The late admirals you see here are probably going to try and overwinter; we don’t see the migrating ones as they are travelling at high altitudes, being carried on fast winds away from the coming Northern winter.

All the creatures we’ve written about so far here migrate as part of their normal lifestyle. But any journey can be fraught with danger and subject to unexpected change. For us, that usually means waiting impatiently at a bus stop, wondering how our local bus company appears to have lost a bright yellow bus, or dozing in an airport wondering when under 5 hours late became ‘on time’ to an airline. For wildlife, though, it’s often a matter of life and death.

Getting lost in a storm in the North Sea at best means winding up in the UK when you didn’t mean to or, at worst, a watery demise. Many birds do get lost every year, and their appearance is here often greeted by great excitement in the birding community as it’s a chance to see something rare or new. Residents around the reserve will be fairly used to binocular-and-telescope wielding birders peering excitedly at something (often small and brown) in a bush or on a fence!

At least if a bird gets lost on its way south from Scandinavia to southern Europe and winds up in the UK, it has a reasonable chance of survival. Rare birds are often tracked, moving south through the UK before they jump the Channel and carry onward. But their appearance highlights just what a big undertaking migration is – it’s a risky business and any creature will only migrate if it improves its chance of survival. That might be moving north to exploit a food source in spring, or fleeing the winter in autumn…but that’s what migration is. It’s moving, to make the best use of the whole planet, in order to help you survive. The map below shows where just some of the birds we’ve seen here have come from. We’re literally part of a global network!

So, next time you see a ‘migrant’ be it a bird, insect or mammal, just pause for a moment and imagine where it may have come from or be going… it may just blow your mind.

September has, almost to a day, been a windy month so far at Forvie. A series of transatlantic low-pressure systems, persistently tracking to the north-west of us, have produced a long and tiresome spell of strong southerlies, trying the patience of those of us who spend our days outdoors. As well as leaving the Reserve staff feeling a little weather-beaten, these windy days have further thinned the canopies of the increasingly sorry-looking trees along the coast, and stirred the North Sea into a surly mood. While the continued sunshine still smacks of summer, the air now speaks unequivocally of autumn.

Seabirds have been prominent along our coast lately, with the last of the local breeders dispersing, while others from much further afield are also passing by. Most obvious and numerous are familiar species such as Kittiwakes and Gannets, with many of the fresh-plumaged juveniles likely to have originated in colonies around the Scottish coast. Other species have journeyed much further to get here, and will be travelling further still; at Forvie in this past week, examples have included Pomarine Skua (breeds high Arctic, winters in tropical seas) and Sooty Shearwater (breeds New Zealand, winters in north Atlantic and Pacific). Spend an hour on our coast with a telescope in September, and you are connected by the wildlife to all corners of the world.

Among the throngs of Kittiwakes have been a handful of Little Gulls, the smallest of the world’s Laridae (the scientific name for the gull tribe). These tiny lightweights are barely the size of a Common Tern, and float along like avian marionettes suspended on a invisible strings.

In fact, at Forvie in September, it’s possible to see the smallest gull in the world alongside the largest. The latter title goes to the magnificent Great Black-backed Gull, whose common name makes good sense – though I must admit I personally prefer the species’ Manx moniker of Juan Mooar (literally ‘Big John’). While Little Gulls float through the air, Great Black-backs lumber along like the heavyweights that they are.

If you see a gang of Great Black-backed Gulls loitering on the shore, you can guarantee there’ll be something dead washed up nearby. Great Black-backs are great recyclers and scavengers, and do a grand job of cleaning up all the bodies that an onshore wind invariably deposits on the beach. Sure enough, the gulls on Forvie beach this week had a wide choice of lunch options: seal, porpoise, various seabirds and a wide variety of shellfish were all on the menu.

Finding this large Shore Crab washed up gave us the opportunity to study its structure, and to marvel at the complexity of all the joints and segments of its armour. It was also possible to note the flattened shape of the rearmost pair of legs, which act as paddles to allow the crab to swim as well as walk. This adaptation is even more pronounced in the related Velvet Crab, a species that tends towards deeper water, and which we also occasionally find washed ashore.

We didn’t find any Velvet Crabs this week, but Catriona did find this splendid Edible Crab washed up near Rockend. With a shell measuring a good eight inches across, this mighty beast would have made for good eating, if only you could vouch for its freshness. While we weren’t willing to risk it, the Great Black-backed Gulls aren’t nearly as choosy!

Having stolen the title for this week’s blog from blues legend Muddy Waters, it’s only appropriate that the content should include some mud and water too. Appropriately enough, Wednesday morning saw us out on the estuary, undertaking the first wader and wildfowl census of the new season. The estuary made for a lively scene, with wading-birds especially well-represented; many of these, in common with the seabirds we mentioned earlier, were juveniles undertaking their first southward migration.

Among the ‘regulation tiddlers’ such as Dunlin and Ringed Plover, we noted several juvenile Curlew Sandpipers, a scarce but regular passage-migrant at Forvie. These seem to be passing through the British Isles in unusually large numbers this autumn, for whatever reason, and a local observer reported a minimum of 20 birds on the estuary in the week.

Arguably the highlight of the count wasn’t actually a wader. As we were walking alongside the Sleek of Tarty, a huge splash in the adjacent river channel telegraphed the presence of an Osprey diving in after its lunch. After an ungainly struggle, it finally lifted off out of the water with what appeared to be a superb Sea Trout, a fish that would have been a credit to any angler.

Back on dry land again, the footpaths and tracks over the heath are alive with furry caterpillars just now. The most plentiful of these – as well as being the largest on the go at the moment – are those of the Fox Moth. You can hardly fail to see one of these if you visit the Reserve at present.

Looking somewhat like a miniature version of the same thing, if a little paler and more gingery, is the caterpillar of the Ruby Tiger moth. These are a typical sight on the Reserve during autumn, and again you are most likely to see them hurrying in slow-motion across the footpaths.

Lastly, we were borrowed over to Muir of Dinnet NNR on Tuesday, to help reserve manager Simon clear a couple of fallen trees – another legacy of these perpetual southerly gales. Still, the change of scene and change of work is always enjoyable, especially at the tail end of a long summer season.

A bit of careful winch-assisted felling, followed by some dismantling and tidying-up, saw the job done and the footpath made safe again. Yet another example of the ‘jacks of all trades’ nature of working on Reserves – and why it’s still an interesting job even after twenty-odd years in post.

So that’s another week done, and indeed in my case, another summer season wrapped up too. I’m off for my ‘summer’ holiday now – see you back on the Reserve in couple of weeks. In the meantime, try not to see any rare birds in my absence please – keep them back until the end of the month!

The first week of September at Forvie turned out to be a bit of an eclectic mix, typical of early autumn, in what’s otherwise been an atypical year to date. After the incredible summer we’ve experienced here in the North-east – the longest, hottest and driest anyone can remember for decades – we were grateful to receive a splash of rain here and there during the past week, with Wednesday turning out especially wet. But the summer wasn’t for leaving us just yet, and in between the unsettled spells we continued to enjoy some fabulously warm and sunny days.

Last time we received a spell of rain, we reported upon the frogs and toads which emerged, as if by some conjuring trick, in large numbers all over the Reserve, taking advantage of the favourable conditions. This week, a similar situation played out with terrestrial molluscs – or snails and slugs to you and I – following Wednesday’s soaking. Conspicuous by their absence during the drought, suddenly the footpaths were awash with them, busily motoring around in all directions. Even at full speed – the proverbial ‘snail’s pace’ – they make what’s probably best described as stately progress, but I must admit that at times I envy their pace of life.

The commonest snail in North Forvie, and in the gardens and roadsides of Collieston and Newburgh villages, is the Garden Snail. Fully-grown individuals can be quite large (at least by UK standards), reaching the diameter of a £2 coin, and their shells are intricately and cryptically patterned in brown and black. The shell of the Garden Snail usually (in the case of 99-point-some percent of the population) has a right-hand spiral to it, and despite having looked at many thousands of them during my lifetime, I am yet to find a rare left-handed example. Still, give me a few more wet days to go out and do some searching…

Moving southwards into the dunes of the Reserve, the Garden Snail is replaced by the White-lipped Banded Snail. These are much smaller than their Garden cousins, and their neat and glossy shells come in highly-variable combinations of cream, yellow and chocolate-brown, usually in a stripy pattern.

As the only species of banded snail to occur at Forvie, they’re easy to recognise. If, however, you’re lucky enough to visit the beautiful St Cyrus NNR, you’ll encounter the closely-related Brown-lipped Banded Snail (I hope you can remember all these names; there’ll be a short test at the end of term). The Brown-lipped version comes in a much wider range of colours: their shells can be white, yellow, pink, orange, cream or chocolate-brown, with or without black or brown stripes of varying thicknesses, so there are an almost unlimited number of combinations. I’m not sure why the Brown-lipped doesn’t occur at Forvie – perhaps our climate is just a little too harsh for them – but I must confess to being a bit jealous of St Cyrus in this regard. Still, I guess thou shouldn’t covet thy neighbour’s snails, and we’ll just have to make do with our White-lipped ones instead.

As well as providing a boon for terrestrial molluscs, Wednesday’s rain dropped a handful of drift-migrants on the Reserve, following hot on the heels of Barry the Barred Warbler the previous week. Most notable among this week’s new arrivals was a lovely Pied Flycatcher at the Forvie Centre, a scarce bird here at the best of times.

The mix of sunshine and rain has helped to fatten and ripen the fruits on the various trees and shrubs in our area. The ones in the photo below are slightly contentious in my household. Being a reformed southerner (“he used to be English”, as one of my friends once drily observed), I still refer to them as Blackberries, for which my wife and mother-in-law – both native North-easterners – berate me remorselessly. They instead call these delicious berries Brambles, i.e. the same name as the bush itself. My argument is that you don’t refer to the fruit of the Blackthorn bush as Blackthorns – they’re Sloes, right? Same in this case: Bramble is the name of the bush, rather than the fruit, right?! Oh, never mind. In reality there’s probably no right or wrong answer, only an etymological tangle as dense as the Bramble thicket itself.

At least the fruits of the Dog Rose are a bit more straightforward: Rose-hips by any other name. Unless, of course, you’re a primary-school child of the outdoor persuasion, in which case they’re widely known (and used on your ‘mates’, by stuffing the broken-open fruits down the backs of their shirts) as Itching-powder. Well, you make your own fun in the country…

Bittersweet berries are also in evidence around the Forvie Centre just now, though this plant also doubles up in terms of its common name. Woody Nightshade anyone?

All this fruit is a bonus for some of the migrant birds passing through our area in autumn. Not so much for the likes of the aforementioned Pied Flycatcher, which as the name suggests, is for the most part insectivorous. But other species like Blackcap and Garden Warbler, both of which dropped in on the Reserve this week, are more than happy to take fruit as well as invertebrate food. These two species are close relatives of our old friend Barry, who himself was tucking into the Blackberries/Brambles (delete as appropriate) during his day’s sojourn last week.

Down on the estuary, wading-birds continue to pile through on their southward journeys, and we’re just about to recommence our fortnightly waders-and-wildfowl censuses after the spring and summer hiatus – how did we get to this point in the year already?!

On Tuesday the estuary hosted a Wilson’s Phalarope, a vagrant wader from North America (again – we seem to have had a real run of transatlantic wanderers in the past year or so). This was a new species for me (though reserve manager Catriona had seen them years ago in Canada). However, as is often the case with waders on the estuary, views were very distant, and it was all a bit underwhelming to be honest – it was a case of ‘spot the whitish dot among all the greyish dots’. This photo gives an accurate representation of the viewing conditions.

I think I maybe need to invest in a new telescope, or perhaps even a new pair of eyes. Or perhaps I’ll just stick to looking for left-handed snails!

Today, being the last of August, marks the ‘official’ end of the bird breeding season (and, whisper it quietly, the end of the actual meteorological summer as well). This turning point in the year sees the last of the ternery infrastructure removed from the Reserve – most notably the barrier fence which denotes the sanctuary area during the breeding season – at which point South Forvie is re-opened to the public once again. With the birds having already departed, we got this particular job done a few days ahead of the ‘official’ date, and as ever, we were indebted to our crack team of volunteers for helping out with this laborious task.

Every year at this particular time, there continues to be a bit of popular misconception as to what the end of the bird breeding season actually means. Most people are quite respectful of the seasonal closure of South Forvie for the sake of the nesting terns, and the need to keep dogs on leads throughout the Reserve during this sensitive time of the year – which is very much appreciated. But come the autumn, some folk then seem to think it’s a total free-for-all. Every August I lose count of the number of times I get asked “When can I let my dog have a run about again?” – but it’s not quite as straightforward as that.

My stock answer to this kind of question is that Forvie doesn’t stop being a nature reserve at the end of the bird breeding season. There are sensitivities throughout the year that require our collective consideration and respect. These include migratory birds trying to catch up on some rest…

…others busily trying to feed up, replacing the calories burned on their epic migration from Arctic to tropics…

…while our resident Roe Deer still have dependent young in tow, and are particularly vulnerable to off-lead dogs.

Meanwhile, the Grey Seal haul-out at the mouth of the Ythan is best avoided, due to the high risk of disturbance and subsequent injury to seals during stampedes. Seal numbers will start to build up again during autumn, with their pupping season taking place chiefly in late autumn and early winter; this is a particularly sensitive time in the Grey Seals’ year.

So the long and the short of it is that there’s never a great time to let the dog run wild on the Reserve! As a special place for wildlife, a much of which rates as nationally or even internationally important, Forvie needs to be treated with a great deal of care and respect right through the year. And I know that I’m probably preaching to the choir in terms of the readership of this blog – but please spread the word!

Speaking of laborious tasks(…), we renewed our hostilities with the invasive Pirri-pirri Bur at Foveran Links this week, turning both the dunes and the air blue in the process. Dealing with this pernicious plant requires a potent herbicide (with blue tracer dye so you know what you’ve already sprayed), a huge amount of persistence and bloody-mindedness, and occasionally some industrial language as befits the chore. Trust me: hiking up and down sandhills while dressed up in a plastic onesie and rubber gloves, and carrying 20 kg of knapsack sprayer, in 25^oC of heat, is enough to try anyone’s patience.

Back on the Reserve, the heath is currently looking resplendent in its purple late-summer cloak, with the heather in full bloom. But with many wild flowers now having come to the end of their season, another job for this past week was the recovery of the information boxes scattered around the Heath Trail. Like the ternery fences, these have done another sterling season’s work, and likewise will be retired to the workshop for repair and storage until next spring, when the seasonal merry-go-round turns around once again.

Dragonflies have been in evidence around the Reserve recently, no doubt benefitting from the continuing warmth and sunshine. Most frequently encountered are the small, red- or yellowish-bodied Common Darters, which have a particular predilection for basking on patches of bare sand at the sides of the footpaths.

Occasionally, though, we’re lucky enough to see the much larger Common Hawker on the heath, an impressive beast whose wings make an audible rattle in flight.

Our very own River Ythan made the news this week, ironically for the lack of river. Water levels in the Ythan catchment are extremely low following the exceptionally dry spring and summer, and I’m sorry to say we’re getting desperate for some rain. We did receive a splash on a couple of nights this week, most notably Thursday, and this brought the amphibians out in force. Frogs, toads and newts have moist, porous skins, and can easily dry out in the sort of parched conditions we’ve experienced at Forvie of late. But overnight dew, or in this case a splash of rain, can provide just enough moisture to ease their passage over open country as they move from their breeding pools to their off-season residences, and for a short while until the ground dries up again, they are ubiquitous.

That same splash of rain on Thursday night, allied with an onshore breeze, also delivered our first Continental drift-migrant of the nascent autumn. A sharp piece of spotting by reserve manager Catriona turned up a splendid Barred Warbler in the scrub outside the Forvie Centre on Friday morning. This is an eastern species that doesn’t breed or overwinter in the UK, but instead occurs as a very scarce passage-migrant, chiefly on the east coast and the Northern Isles. Usually stubbornly skulky and hard to observe, this particular individual bucked the trend and proved surprisingly and delightfully obliging. As such, he quickly acquired the affectionate (and predictable) name of Barry from the admiring Reserve team.

With August having generally been a quiet month on the bird front, Barry was a most welcome visitor indeed – and hopefully the harbinger of an exciting autumn to come over the course of the next three months. Bring it on!

With the latter half of August now upon us, the 2025 ‘tern season’ at Forvie is now officially over and done. This massive milestone in the Reserve’s year always brings with it a mix of emotions: a good deal of relief that it’s all over, a sprinkle of sadness that the terns are leaving us, and a substantial helping of either satisfaction or disappointment depending on how successfully the season has panned out. All garnished with a sprig of exhaustion, of both the physical and the mental kind; the season is a long haul, both for the birds and for the people who seek to look after them.

The departure of the last birds from the ternery heralds the start of the big clear-up. There are two Fensman hides to recover from the Sandwich tern colony; two 33kg batteries and their associated switchgear to remove; four earth rods and several wooden posts to come out; 2,000 metres of steel wire to reel up; about 450 plastic insulating poles to bundle up and take out; 20 rolls of mesh netting to pack up and carry out; and hundreds of pegs, guy ropes, ground staples and other ancillary bits and pieces to remove. Best get the sleeves rolled up then.

We’re lucky at Forvie to have a brilliant band of regular volunteers to help out with tasks such as these, and without them the Reserve would be a much poorer place. With staffers Catriona and Joe each away on some well-earned leave this week, I was especially grateful to volunteers Richard, Elaine, Vikki and Jim for their time; between us we got the entire electric fence packed up and returned, in instalments, to the workshop for winter storage. It was a phenomenal effort, and everyone did more than I would ever have dared ask of them. I honestly can’t thank you all enough.

Former Forvie tern warden Rob Ballinger, much loved and sadly missed, always used to indulge in what he called a ‘quiet reflective moment’ at the end of each summer season. It’s that contemplative minute or two you spend in the now-deserted ternery, taking in the strange silence and uncharacteristic serenity of the setting, which for the previous five months has been all noise and mayhem.

In this respect, the atmosphere at the ternery at the end of the season reminds me somewhat of the aftermath of a music festival. Gone are the crowds, the noise, the chatter, the excitable chaos; the showground lies deserted, except for a handful of stewards and roadies clearing up the debris and nursing their sore heads. And that’s exactly how it feels at the ternery: what a party it was. At its raucous midsummer peak, Forvie’s ternery is a festival of life.

So was all the effort with the fencing and monitoring worth it in 2025? The answer here is an unequivocal ‘yes’. Of my nineteen ‘tern seasons’ here at Forvie (how did that happen, by the way?!), this one ranks comfortably in the top five, if not the top three. All the key breeding bird species enjoyed a good deal of breeding success; some species had a solid season, while others had an outstanding one. What follows is a quick summary for each.

Black-headed Gull

1,705 breeding pairs; minimum 1,264 young fledged.

With Forvie nowadays hosting up to one fifth of Scotland’s breeding Black-headed Gulls, we have become a disproportionately-important site for this once-common-and-widespread species. The peak count of 1,264 fledged young will undoubtedly be an under-estimate of the colony’s total productivity, with birds continuing to fledge from the colony over an eight-week period. With favourable weather and low predation pressure, chick survival was very high. A rock-solid season.

Sandwich Tern

1,010 breeding pairs; minimum 1,102 young fledged.

Another species for which Forvie is hugely important in a Scottish and UK context, with up to 10% of the UK population breeding here in some years. This year’s 1,010 pairs represented a strong colony, and the peak count of 1,102 fledged young was a record in the nineteen years I’ve worked on the Reserve. And what a bounce-back from the devastation wrought by avian ‘flu upon this species just two years previously.

Arctic & Common Terns

621 breeding pairs (combined); minimum 272 young fledged.

These two similar species each had a better season than the figures might suggest. The total of 621 breeding pairs comprised 509 pairs Arctic and 112 pairs Common, in a loose mixed colony. Their young fledged over a protracted period of several weeks, which meant there wasn’t a single large peak count, but known losses were low. Like the Black-headed Gulls, these birds had a solid if not spectacular season. I’ll take that for a result.

Little Tern

9 breeding pairs; minimum 11 young fledged.

These were the real surprise package of the season. With their favourite exposed-shingle nesting habitat at a premium on the Reserve just now, only nine pairs settled to breed this year, and were very late in getting started. This late start, combined with the species’ poor recent track record at Forvie, meant I wasn’t optimistic about their chances of success. However, I was delighted to be proven wrong, and the peak count of 11 fledged young represents their second-highest productivity per nest in the last decade. Woot woot!

Eider

60-90 breeding pairs (estimate); minimum 98 young fledged.

Although a far cry from their mid-20th Century heyday, Forvie’s Eider population remains an important feature of the Reserve. Now mostly concentrated within the electric-fenced enclosure, where they nest among the terns and gulls, their rate of hatching success in 2025 was very good. In early summer up to 250 ducklings were seen on the estuary, but the usual losses to predators resulted in a final total of 98 surviving to fledge – in the scheme of things, a very solid season indeed.

And finally…

With the season now happily ended, we owe a great debt of thanks to everyone who has helped us with the maintenance and monitoring tasks at the ternery throughout the year, most notably our volunteers. But thanks are also owed to all the visitors to the Reserve who have respected the closure of South Forvie to the public during the bird breeding season, thereby minimising disturbance and allowing the birds the best possible chance of success.

All things being even, we’ll aim to get the barrier fence taken down at some point next week, at which point South Forvie will re-open to the public once again – watch this space for more. But I hope you’ll forgive us needing a break from fencing work for a few days in the meantime!

The Mediterranean feel to the summer of 2025 at Forvie continued this week, with a series of hot, humid days and stiflingly warm nights. As is often the way of such things, the build-up of heat eventually resulted in a significant electrical storm on Thursday evening, with some spectacular lighting strikes visible to the south-west of the Reserve. After their previous close shave with lightning earlier in the season, we were worried that Danny and Joe had somehow angered the gods again, but thankfully this time the storm passed safely inland of us. Thus we could all enjoy the thrill of the lightning without simultaneously having to worry about being vaporised by it. Happy days.

In the build-up to the storm, the heat and humidity had combined with a light onshore breeze to bring in the haar for a short period. This brought a refreshing mist of moisture to the parched vegetation of the Reserve, but I always feel for Forvie’s spider population at such times. All their carefully-set traps, woven from such fine silk as to be practically invisible in normal conditions, were now as obvious as if they’d been sprayed with silver paint.

Lurking in the gloom in the stubble fields adjoining the north end of the Reserve were a small gang of Curlew. Not long arrived from their travels – who knows where ‘our’ Curlew spend their summers? – it is possible that these are the vanguard of the small flock of forty-odd birds that overwinter in the Collieston area each year. While I know I’ll receive dog’s abuse from some of our readership for mentioning the word ‘overwinter’ in August, it’s nonetheless a sure sign that for many species, the summer breeding season is unequivocally over now.

Our summer visitors, meanwhile, are similarly coming to the end of their respective breeding seasons. At the north end of the Reserve, hirundines (i.e. Swallows, House and Sand Martins) are starting to gather with their fledged youngsters, lining up on the fences and rooftops and noisily discussing the route to Africa. It’ll be a few weeks yet until the majority depart our shores, and this year’s fledglings make that great leap into the unknown.

As well as a brilliant bird breeding season, and the best summer for insects in decades, 2025 also appears to have been a boom year for small mammals. As evidence of this, we often see them zipping across the footpaths on a regular basis, and occasionally also find dead ones on the roads and paths of the Reserve. One of Forvie’s more numerous small mammals is the Common Shrew, and rival individuals of this species regularly fight to the death when they meet with one another. More often than not, the ones that we find on the footpaths are casualties of these tiny yet brutal encounters.

In nature, of course, nothing goes to waste, and the deceased Common Shrew in the following picture has already attracted the attention of one of nature’s great recyclers.

Meet the Sexton Beetle. These instantly-recognisable and enterprising insects are so named for the way they make their living: burying bodies. Having excavated a hole beneath the corpse of a small mammal or bird, the male and female beetle, working as a team, lower the body of the deceased into it. The female then lays her eggs on or next to the body. When the larvae hatch, they feed on the ‘cured meat’ under the watchful eye of both parent beetles. However gruesome this whole endeavour may sound, it’s all part of nature’s circular economy, with these hard-working beasts fulfilling an important role in the great cycle of life.

For their size, Sexton Beetles are remarkably strong, and are capable of moving objects many times larger and heavier than themselves. Catriona captured this short film of a Sexton Beetle moving the corpse of a Short-tailed Vole, which I reckon is probably the equivalent of me lifting and carrying a pickup truck. Respect!

The enduring fine summer has also given us an excellent wild flower season, and although many species are now beginning to go over, the sides of the trails throughout the Reserve are still looking bright and cheery.

Along the coast path, a pink-flowered form of Yarrow is in evidence just now. Yarrow flowers are usually pure white, with the pink form a good deal rarer, at least here on our patch.

Yarrow also goes by the alternative common name of Milfoil, deriving from its scientific name Achillea millefolia. This translates as ‘thousand leaves’, and a close look at a single Yarrow leaf reveals why. The leaf is so finely divided – or ‘multi-pinnate’ if you prefer the posher term – that it looks like a thousand tiny leaves in one. Meanwhile, the Achillea bit of the scientific name refers to the Greek warrior Achilles, whom legend has it treated his battle wounds with Yarrow poultices. Sure enough, the plant has powerful astringent qualities, and at one time was widely used as a blood-stopper.

Another floral curiosity we noted this week was a patch of white Bluebells, if you can forgive the contradiction in terms. This is a moderately frequent aberration, having been seen in various places on the Reserve where the ‘standard’ Bluebells are abundant. For whatever reason, they reminded me of an old-fashioned set of Christmas lights, draped over a tangle of Marram grass. Ah, sorry – there I go referencing winter again…

More ordinary, but no less visually appealing, are the delicate pink flowers of Ragged Robins, which can currently be found abloom in the wetter areas of the Reserve, particularly in the marshy areas around the lochs and burns.

In the drier areas, a typical late-summer vista is that of Wild Angelica stems standing sentinel over the surrounding parched grasses. Strange to think that not so many years ago, the candied stems of this plant were used for cake decoration, before synthetic green food dyes were available. How quickly things change!

Taking advantage of the continuing crop of wild flowers are a plethora of flying insects, from hoverflies to beetles, wasps to moths. Although the butterfly scene has quietened down somewhat from its early August peak, there are still plenty to be seen. The last of this year’s Dark Green Fritillaries are now beginning to look a little world-weary…

…but the Vanessids (the famous foursome of Red Admiral, Painted Lady, Small Tortoiseshell and Peacock) are still looking magnificent.

What a summer we’ve enjoyed here in the North-east in 2025, and it’s not over yet. Keep the sunshine coming please – but spare us the thunderbolts!

Having blogged last week about what a fabulous summer’s weather we’ve been enjoying, it was inevitable that I’d get my comeuppance more or less immediately. Sure enough, the very next day after the blog was published, we received a summer storm of unusual violence and intensity. Gone were the balmy days and butterflies; this was a day of ferocious gales, ripping branches and somersaulting wheelie-bins. Lesson learned: don’t tempt the fates, or indeed the weather gods.

In all honesty, the Reserve got off very lightly. There was no significant damage to trees or buildings, and the ternery electric fence, standing as it does on the most exposed place on the planet, stood up surprisingly well too. In truth though, it wouldn’t have been a disaster if it had been flattened by the storm: the fence’s work is all but done now, with the ternery now 99.9% emptied of birds.

Most annoyingly, however, the vicious sand-blow did expose a substantial area of shingle – prime Little Tern real-estate – which would have been very useful at the start of the breeding season. Sigh.

Where the storm had churned up the waters of the estuary, a few artefacts had washed up on the strand line. These included examples of both Compass and Lion’s Mane jellyfish, bright blue and deep fox-red respectively. In some years, these wash up in prodigious quantities in late summer; time will tell whether or not 2025 is a ‘jellyfish year’.

The wind and wave action had also caused the Ythan Estuary’s famous ‘blue sand’ to settle out into a broad line along the high-water mark. This is actually formed from the crushed shells of countless Mussels, plucked from the river bed and eaten by Forvie’s Eiders. Unlike humans with their moules mariniere, Eiders don’t bother shelling theirs, and instead swallow them whole, shell and all. Crushed into fragments in the birds’ muscular gizzards, the shells pass all the way through the Eiders’ digestive systems, and are eventually, ahem, returned to the estuary. And that’s what you’re seeing as ‘blue sand’ on the estuary – nice, huh?

The Eiders themselves, of course, are busy moulting and sulking at the mouth of the estuary, passing the time until their bright new feathers grow in the early autumn. In the meantime, they are flightless and scruffy, and spend much of the day dozing peacefully on the foreshore.

The estuary also played host to at least three Spoonbills this week. These are bizarre and somewhat freakish birds, whose spoon-shaped beaks are perfectly adapted to sifting through estuarine mud and water to extract all the delicious wee beasties that live within it. Historically a southern species, with strongholds in the Mediterranean region, this is another species that’s becoming more and more frequent in our region as our climate becomes ever milder.

Thursday saw us out on the Foveran Burn for the annual Himalayan Balsam-bashing excursion, in a continuing attempt to eradicate this invasive non-native species in our local area. The job had been planned for the Monday, before being scuppered by the storm; better late than never though. We were grateful to volunteers Richard, Vikki and Jim for giving up their time, and to Lewis and (former Forvie summer warden) Robert for organising and providing refreshments. The latter were very much appreciated: it was a very warm day for wearing chest-waders!

Back onto the Reserve now, and this week we are indebted to local naturalist and photographer Ron Macdonald, who has kindly provided us with a cracking series of shots showing some aerial action above the estuary. With the breeding season now all but over, Forvie’s terns have begun to disperse into the world, scattering to the four winds, to return (or so we hope) next spring. However, small numbers of all four species remain in the area, with adults teaching their newly-fledged offspring the rudiments of fishing.

As ever, Ron has put himself in the right places at the right times, taking advantage of the golden light at either end of the day to capture some remarkably beautiful images. Not that we’re biased or anything, but terns are surely among the most elegant and photogenic of all Forvie’s birds: judge for yourself though!

In contrast to last summer, the terns’ food supply – chiefly small oily fish such as Sand-eels and Sprats – has held up throughout the season. Whereas last year the birds had abandoned the area completely by mid-July, with the estuary possessed of an eerie ghost-town sort of feel, this time around it’s a much livelier scene. However, the terns aren’t getting it all their own way, with their feeding activities attracting the attention of some notorious bandits.

Arctic Skuas are essentially pirates: sea-going buccaneers who make their living through larceny. Using a combination of fabulous flying skills and intimidating physical presence, they rob other seabirds of their catch of fish, twisting and harrying in breathtaking high-speed pursuit until their victim drops its catch (or indeed regurgitates its last meal: skuas are not fussy eaters, and aren’t averse to second-hand food). But for all this, they don’t usually resort to physical violence, and usually a quick tweak of the victim’s tail or wingtip in flight is enough to convince them to ‘cough up’ (sometimes in the literal sense). As such, their style of piracy is gentlemanly rather than brutal; more Captain Jack Sparrow than Edward Low.

Against a post-storm backdrop of black skies and milky sunshine, Ron captured an action shot of two Arctic Skuas pursuing a single Sandwich Tern over the mouth of the estuary. With the Second World War pillbox in the foreground, Ron reckoned the scene was more akin to a dogfight between combat aircraft than a pirate encounter – perhaps a pair of Messerschmitts closing in on a lone Spitfire…

…and in much the same way as a fighter pilot of old, it can’t be much fun when you’re outnumbered, with not one but two bandits on your tail!

Thanks once again to Ron Macdonald for the use of his superb photos in this week’s blog. See you again next week!

Most people with an interest in the natural world have probably, at some point, come across the term ‘shifting baseline syndrome’. It’s a neat way of expressing a well-known phenomenon: that we almost invariably use the world we knew in our childhood as a point of reference. Thus any changes we’ve witnessed in our lifetime will always be compared against this baseline. It’s an interesting, and totally understandable, quirk of human psychology.

I am as guilty as anyone of doing this (though in my defence, I’m at least self-aware enough to realise that I’m doing it!) – and can’t help comparing the world I see now with the world of my youth. Now we all know that nature has generally been in freefall for much of the past hundred years (and especially the past fifty), and as a result my own baseline (late 1980s-early 1990s) doesn’t exactly represent a golden age of biological diversity. That said, compared with today’s world, I’m sorry to say it does elicit a melancholic pang of nostalgia: a ‘delicious sadness’, as the naturalist Gerald Durrell once wrote.

Memories from this time come back with surprising, sometimes alarming clarity. Beakers of lemonade served on the back steps in scorching sunshine. Travelling by train in the dying days of BR, on faded velour seats behind clapped-out locomotives. Australia marmalising England in countless Test matches, coming through the long-wave radio in Dad’s Ford Escort. And most poignantly, all that wildlife, that I naïvely just took for granted.

Anyway, I promise there’s a relevant point to this ramble down memory lane. Back in the land of the here and now, we’re currently experiencing the best summer for a long while in terms of weather (mostly) and wildlife (definitely). This past week I have been unable to resist making comparisons with the summers of my childhood, but for once in a good way. Basically, this boils down to two things: sunshine and butterflies, both of which have been in unusual abundance at Forvie in the summer of 2025.

A quick walk from Collieston to Hackley Bay on Tuesday produced, without any real effort on my part, eleven different species of butterflies. At our latitude, that’s not too shabby at all, given that flying-insect diversity generally decreases the further north you go in Europe. But more than this, it was the numbers that were impressive. Rather than the odd ones and twos that we’re used to, this year we’re seeing butterflies in the sort of abundance that I recall from my youth: the very best kind of throwback.

Among the throngs of Red Admirals and Small Tortoiseshells – great to see these present in good numbers once more – Painted Ladies have been very much in evidence. This is something of a boom-and-bust species at Forvie; in some years we hardly see a single one, while in other years they can be super-abundant (the last year this happened was 2019 – or as we fondly call it, the Dave Pickett Era). This feast-or-famine pattern of occurrence is due to the vagaries of wind and weather, allied to the butterfly’s remarkable (bordering on unbelievable) life strategy.

The Painted Lady is a multi-generational, long-distance migrant. That is to say it migrates over vast distances – from sub-Saharan Africa north to the very edge of the Arctic Circle – in a series of shorter ‘hops’, each one undertaken by a new generation of butterflies. The first generation hatches in central Africa, then moves northwards to Morocco when it gets too hot south of the Sahara. Here they breed, and the resulting offspring then head northwards into Europe. Two or three generations later, if prevailing wind and weather conditions are favourable, what are perhaps the ‘great-grandkids’ of the original African butterflies make landfall here in Scotland, having crossed the North Sea in the process. And that’s what we’re witnessing right now at Forvie.

As if this wasn’t amazing enough (I mean how can a butterfly weighing less than a gram, with a wingspan of less than 6 cm, cross the North Sea or the Sahara Desert?!), it’s the last part of the Painted Lady’s life story that’s the really mind-blowing bit. What’s more, it was a mystery only solved within the past twenty years.

The key point to note here is that the Painted Lady can’t survive the Scottish winter, in any part of its life cycle (i.e. egg, caterpillar, pupa or adult). Consequently for years it was thought that the later generations of the butterfly were basically heading down a dead-end road, in the literal sense, on their northward migration. However, studies carried out in 2009 – another big Painted Lady year in the UK – employed ground-based radar to track the flying butterflies.

By these means, scientists established that the Painted Ladies didn’t wait to meet their inevitable fate in the British winter – instead, they upped and left for Africa. Ascending to altitudes of 500 metres and more – which explains why the phenomenon has never actually been observed by the human eye – they hitch a free ride on prevailing tail-winds, to end up right back where their ancestors started out in central Africa, a journey of 7,000 miles or thereabouts. In 2009, it was reckoned that 11 million Painted Ladies arrived in the UK during the 2009 study, while a whopping 26 million departed southwards in the autumn. Clearly, the long journey north (and thence south) is worth it for the seasonal glut of food available to the butterflies in northern Europe. It’s a strategy that works – however unlikely it may seem.

So when you’re walking the paths on the Reserve and seeing these butterflies zipping around, and supping nectar from the thistles and knapweeds, you’re seeing one of the true miracles of nature. Not that we even knew that during the heady days of my youth! Now, as then – and regardless of any shifting baselines – there’s so much more for us to learn about the world in which we live.