Since hitting the ‘publish’ button last time around, another working week has flown by in approximately five minutes, and with it October has receded into the rearview mirror. I hope to think that this apparently rapid passage of time has more to do with us working hard than getting older, but who knows? In any case, the year 2025 is indisputably growing old: ten months down, and just two to go.

The last week of October continued the pattern of the rest of the month; that is to say, there was actually no pattern at all. Cold, warm, wet, windy, settled, sunny, and generally just confusing – and sometimes all on the same day. But still a great week to be out of doors – aren’t they all though?

Late autumn, of course, is high season for Forvie’s Grey Seals. Their pupping season starts in earnest during late October, and notwithstanding a couple of earlier, unsuccessful, premature births, we have now had our first successful birthings of the 2025 season.

At the time of writing, there are two pups present at the haul-out. The eldest of these is about two weeks old, and belongs to a female known by local observers as ‘Eagle’. This particular female has been pupping at Forvie for several years now, and as a relatively experienced mum, she makes the whole process look easy. Her pup is looking exceptionally healthy and well-fed, and it won’t be long now before it’s fully weaned. Grey Seal pups are weaned within just 17-21 days of birth, after which they are fully independent, in spite of their small size and helpless appearance. This is due to the high energy content of the mother’s milk, which allows for rapid development and weight gain. All that weight that the pups put on during their first three weeks of life will help to sustain them as they set out on their own, and learn to fish for themselves.

The second pup arrived just a few days ago, and is consequently a good deal smaller than the first at present. These first few days of life are when the pups are most vulnerable, and without wishing to sound like a broken record, it’s worth re-iterating the importance of minimising disturbance to the haul-out at this critical time. Seasonal signage on the Reserve helps direct visitors away from the haul-out area, and we’re grateful to visitors for respecting this arrangement.

If you want to catch a glimpse of the pups, as well as taking in the spectacle of the haul-out as a whole, the best way to do so is from the splendid boardwalk at Newburgh, courtesy of the Newburgh & Ythan Community Trust. I appreciate that regular readers are probably all well aware of this arrangement already – but please help us spread the word, for the good of both people and seals!

Also present near the seal haul-out are Forvie’s remaining Eiders, whose numbers typically decline through the autumn as they head southwards down the coast to the Tay Estuary or beyond. We count them roughly every second week throughout the autumn and winter, and sure enough, our recent counts revealed that numbers had dropped from over 600 in the first week of October to just 270 in the last.

Also undertaken fortnightly are the corresponding low-tide counts of various wildfowl and wader species, with one such count taking place on Wednesday of this week. For once we had a decent day’s weather for the job, albeit with a bitterly cold north-wester blowing across the estuary, and the light was pretty good too. All we then needed was for the birds to co-operate, and sit still while we counted them…

…and not take off two-thirds of the way through – sigh.

Thankfully not all species are as jumpy and nervous as our Golden Plover flock; others such as Turnstones are much more obliging, and are approachable almost to the point of being tame. This makes life substantially easier for the fieldworker!

While out for the count, so to speak, we espied the unmistakable tracks of an Otter on the mudflats at the mouth of the Tarty Burn. Being largely nocturnal (or at least crepuscular) and discreet in their habits, we don’t see Otters nearly as often as we see their tracks and signs. But it’s nice to know that they’re out there all the same!

These wildfowl-and-wader counts start at the Ythan mouth, next to the seal haul-out, and end at Logie Buchan bridge near the town of Ellon, which is essentially the upper tidal reach of the estuary. Here the water is fresher than is the case further downstream (where there is more saline influence from the sea), and subsequently this part of the estuary sometimes plays host to species that favour fresh water over salt or brackish. One such example is the Smew, a small diving-duck closely related to the Goosander and Red-breasted Merganser which are ever-present on the estuary. In contrast to the two more familiar species, Smew occur less than annually here, and it’s always a bit of an occasion when you find one. Better still, Ron Macdonald was soon on the scene with his camera, and kindly allowed me to reproduce the following (beautiful, as usual) photograph.

With the clocks having been set back, dusk occurs all too early on these late-autumn afternoons. One of the biggest challenges with the wader counts in November through January will be finding enough hours of useable daylight to get the job done. These counts can only be carried out at low tide – and ideally when the weather isn’t trying to kill you either – and combined with the limited daylight available, this fairly narrows down your options. It’s a case of having to cram the counts in whenever the opportunity arises – and working as quickly as you can on the day!

One compensation for working up until dusk is that you get to jam in on the evening flight of wild swans and geese – one of life’s pleasures for sure!

And by the time you get home, there’s a chance to enjoy the North-east’s fabulous dark skies for a moment, before lighting the fire and putting the kettle on. Every cloud and all that!

A bit of a sad note on which to finish up this week. At the end of October we bade a fond farewell to seasonal warden Joe, whose season’s work with us has now come to an end. For the second year running, Joe has brought to the Forvie team a huge amount of energy, hard yakka and bonhomie, and we can’t thank him enough for his efforts, or indeed his company. We’ve been very fortunate at Forvie in recent years to have had some brilliant young seasonal staff pass through the doors, and none more so than Joe. You’ll be missed by us all!

So here’s wishing you all the very best, mate, and good luck with whatever comes next – and I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again!

By the time this piece goes to press, the clocks will have been set back their requisite hour, and once again we find ourselves in the latter stages of the northern autumn. In the natural world, this part of the season brings with it a new sense of urgency for those species still on their travels. No more the lazy days and leisurely wanderings of August and September; now, with the day-lengths rapidly shortening and the temperatures dropping, if you’ve got somewhere to go, you’d better get a move on. This is the business end of the migration season.

Sure enough, the pace has quickened noticeably this past few days, with various comings and goings noted across the Reserve throughout the week. Waterfowl have been particularly conspicuous, with huge gatherings of Pink-footed Geese on the estuary numbering well into the thousands, and a steady southward trickle of Whooper Swans providing a haunting musical backing-track to the working week. Meanwhile, a south-easterly blow and some rain on Monday delivered an arrival of small migrants to our shores too, notably Blackcaps, which were present on the Reserve and in the gardens of Collieston in substantial numbers. For these tired and hungry travellers, any soft fruit was gratefully seized upon, and here at author’s HQ we helped them out as best we could.

For small songbird migrants such as these, the North Sea is a formidable obstacle to have to negotiate; any navigational error, or deterioration in the weather during the crossing, may prove fatal. We know that for all the birds that successfully make it ashore, others will have perished en-route, disappearing without trace in the salt-water desert. Just occasionally this reality is brought home to us with eye-opening clarity, such as on Thursday this week when I walked a three-quarter-mile stretch of Forvie’s shore. Here on the strand-line, among the seaweeds and general flotsam, were the sorry remains of at least 19 thrushes (a mixture of Redwings, Fieldfares and Blackbirds) that had failed to complete the crossing. That their remains had washed ashore perhaps indicates that they were heartbreakingly close to the coast before succumbing to exhaustion – so near and yet so far. But that’s life as a long-distance migrant.

Larger species, despite having an advantage in terms of bodyweight and fuel reserves, are still subject to the same hazards. On the same stretch of beach were the remains of a Long-eared Owl, having met the same fate as its fellow travellers. Not for the first time we’re reminded of the hard lives lived by wild creatures, and increasingly so in a world so radically altered by humanity: who knows how the changing climate and continuing loss of natural habitats will affect migratory species such as these in future.

Even those lucky individuals that do make landfall aren’t yet out of danger. Tired migrants are easy meals for predators, and this Peregrine on the cliffs near Hackley Bay would undoubtedly have been awake to the opportunities presented by the autumn migration season.

Migratory waterbirds, of course, have the huge advantage of being able to put down on the sea for a rest if they so choose. One such species is the Slavonian Grebe, one of which turned up on Sand Loch on Tuesday. This is a scarce bird here, which we see just once or twice a year on average, so I was keen to capture a photo of it for the record. Local naturalist and photographer-extraordinaire Ron Macdonald had the same idea, but with somewhat different results. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which of the following photos was taken by Ron, and which was taken by me. No prizes though.

As we’ve said in the past, it’s not just birds that are migrants. Amphibians are short-distance travellers, commuting between their summer spawning grounds and their cosy winter lie-ups, and we’re seeing the tail end of that just now. Both Common Toad and Common Frog were noted this week, and in each case we wondered whether it would be our last sighting of the year.

From migrants to mushrooms now, and the Heath Trail on Monday produced a fine selection of fungi, mostly among the short grass of the path-sides. I’m the first to admit that my mycological knowledge is rather limited (actually, if I’m being truthful, it’s utter pants), so I won’t attempt to put names to the following. Suffice to say, though, there was a wonderful array of colours, forms and textures on show. And if any readers would care to help me out with the identification, please get in touch!

One of the few species I can actually identify is the Blackening Waxcap, which also goes by the name of Witch’s Hat based on its conical shape. This is a fascinating species due to its dramatic change in appearance between emergence and maturity; it’s difficult to believe that the following two photos depict the same species.

I’m also going to have a go at this one, which I believe is the Dusky Puffball… but once again I’d be happy to stand corrected by any readers whose knowledge out-rates mine (not a difficult feat, to be honest). For me, fungi are a salutary (and annually-repeated) reminder of how little I really know about the natural world.

Insect news tends to be a bit hard to come by at the hinner-end of the year, so it was nice to have at least a couple of items on which to report. First was this distinctive-looking Dipteran (two-winged fly) at the Forvie Centre, which turned out to be a Noon Fly. This is a species associated with cattle, which makes sense given the presence of beasts in the neighbouring park (sorry, cows in the neighbouring field, for non-North-east Scotland readers). In any case, I thought it a rather handsome species, with a nice easy-to-remember name to boot.

This brightly-coloured little caterpillar initially puzzled me, before I realised it was an early instar (=early larval stage) of the Northern Eggar moth. This is a familiar species on the heath at Forvie, but we more often see the much larger late instars – perhaps because they’re that much more conspicuous.

Lastly, a surprise find in our garden on the edge of the Reserve was this Comma butterfly, which was enjoying the apples we provided for the hungry Blackcaps. As far as we know, it’s the first ever recorded in the Forvie/Collieston area, and once again I was determined to capture a few photos for the record. This was easy enough while it was having a feed…

…but less so when it decided to fly up onto our chimney stack for a bask in the sun, necessitating using my binoculars as a makeshift long lens for the phone camera – this takes a steady hand and a good deal of luck!

And so an action-packed week comes to an end. About three more weeks of peak autumn migration lie ahead – who knows what they might bring, and what stories remain to be told. Stay tuned!

The first ten days of October in our part of the world were probably best described as capricious, showcasing the best and worst that autumn in the North-east has to offer. After the chaos and fury of Storm Amy last weekend, the week that followed produced some beautiful, settled and (whisper it quietly) summery days of calm, sunshine and unseasonable warmth. It felt like a different season every day, leaving you confused as to how many layers to put on each morning – but variety is reckoned to be the spice of life after all!

As Storm Amy set in with a vengeance at the end of the previous week, we had wondered whether the early part of this week would be spent clearing up the aftermath. In the event, Forvie got off more or less unscathed, but our ‘sister NNR’ at Muir of Dinnet wasn’t so lucky. On Monday, an early-morning message from reserve manager Simon reported numerous fallen trees blocking the footpaths, with a corresponding call for assistance. So by 0900 hours, the Forvie team were on the road westwards, in a car loaded up with chainsaws and all the associated paraphernalia. On what was one of the hottest October days I can ever remember in the North-east, with temperatures nudging 20^oC in the middle of the day, we managed to get the paths cleared by mid-afternoon before returning to the welcome coolness of the east coast – and I didn’t think we’d be saying that in October!

Tuesday saw us heading out onto the estuary for a routine high-water bird count, with the species in the spotlight being Red-breasted Merganser and Eider. While the former are still looking a bit scruffy and unprepossessing, having not quite completed their post-breeding moult, the Eiders by contrast are resplendent in their new season’s finery. In the summery autumn sunshine, they made for a fine sight indeed.

We count Eiders and Mergansers at high tide because this is when they tend to be least active, spending most of their time roosting rather than feeding; it’s tough counting diving-ducks when they’re actually diving. But we do the exact opposite for wading-birds, and count them at low tide when they’re actively feeding (Danny and Joe are out on the estuary doing just that as I type this). This is for two reasons: firstly, certain species such as Curlew, Lapwing and Golden Plover move off the estuary at high tide, congregating on neighbouring fields where we can’t see them; and secondly, those species that do remain on the estuary tend to roost in such dense flocks that it’s nigh-on impossible to tell where one bird ends and the next one begins. Have a go at counting the Dunlin in the photo below, and you’ll see what I mean!

Though we enjoyed some pleasant sunshine for the waterfowl count, the rain was never too far away, as evidenced by a splendid rainbow spanning the width of the lower estuary.

Meanwhile, on the strand-line under our feet, there appeared to have been a consignment of glass marbles washed up on the beach. This was a curiosity that required a closer look.

The reality was at once more prosaic and more interesting though. These transparent little beads were actually Sea Gooseberries, a species of comb-jelly (so-called due to the comb-like rows of cilia on the creature’s body, which it uses for propulsion). Sea Gooseberries spend their lives in the water-column of the North Sea, commuting between seabed and surface-water, and feeding on tiny morsels of plankton which they trap in their long, fine, trailing tentacles (not visible in the photographed specimen). We’re not sure what caused them to wash ashore – the winds have blown resolutely offshore recently, much to my chagrin as an east-coast birder – but here was a rare chance to see a strange, almost alien creature with which we wouldn’t normally cross paths.

On Wednesday we welcomed a group of colleagues from our Terrestrial Ornithology team to Forvie for their away-day. This was a mirror-image of our excursion to Loch Ness-side the previous week; this time we were the hosts rather than the guests, and we were delighted to be able to show off the Reserve to a group of like-minded and enthusiastic conservationists. It’s always enjoyable renewing acquaintances with long-lost colleagues, and meeting new ones for the first time; needless to say, conversation tended towards the ornithological, which suited us just fine!

To this end, I don’t think the group’s standout highlight was the expert insight from the dedicated, passionate and knowledgeable (not to mention good-looking) Reserve staff (ahem)… instead, the show was stolen by the Glossy Ibis that appeared on the estuary during the visit. This was our first record of this southern species in the local area for nearly ten years, and comes off the back of a large influx into England from the Continent in recent weeks. Glossy Ibises are odd, gangling, almost prehistoric-looking birds; visiting colleague Benjy described the bird as ‘a Gothic version of a Curlew’, and you can instantly see why!

Later in the week, a bit of progress was made on the necessary-but-wearisome annual task of cutting and raking all the areas of wildflower meadow around the Forvie Centre and its associated car park. The cutting is the relatively easy part; the really tiresome bit is having to rake up and remove all the debris. This is strictly necessary in order to keep the meadow nutrient-poor, thus favouring the growth of flowering plants, and suppressing the aggressive rank grasses which would otherwise dominate the meadow. But I can’t say it’s one of my favourite jobs!

Towards the end of the working week, and immediately before I settled down to write this piece, we received a very welcome visitor in the shape of the year’s first Yellow-browed Warbler. This tiny and delightful species hails from faraway Siberia – quite how and why they ever end up on our coast continues to puzzle, fascinate and thrill us in equal measure – and we’re by no means guaranteed to see them from one year to the next. With their neat green, yellow and cream plumage, diminutive size, and restless, hyperactive nature, they are always a joy to catch up with.

Where these little birds go after they make landfall here remains a mystery. But having brightened our day considerably, we made sure to wish this one the best of luck for its onward journey. Fare forward, tiny traveller!

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!