After the high winds and bucketing rain of Storm Darragh last weekend, there followed an unusually calm and settled week here at Forvie. High atmospheric pressure was the order of the day (or indeed the seven days), resulting in light winds, low temperatures and plenty of sunshine. While this was enjoyable in itself, we couldn’t help but feel we were perhaps being lulled into a false sense of security, and that surely this meant there would be a hurricane next week. Perhaps this is symptomatic of a lifetime working in nature conservation: eyes constantly on the horizon looking for the next crisis!

On the heath, the the effects of Darragh remain clear to see. We received a huge amount of rainfall over the course of last weekend, and unsurprisingly this has topped up the seasonal floodwater in all the usual places. In a recent blog post we mentioned an upcoming review of the footpath network in North Forvie, and right now it’s easy to see why it’s required.

The settled conditions this week also extended to the North Sea, which was unusually benign for the time of year. On Wednesday morning Aberdeen Bay lay becalmed under a mackerel sky, the water as flat as a plate, with gentle wavelets lapping the shore.

The lack of wind-blow across the sand made for good animal-tracking conditions on the beach and dunes. Even a gentle breeze is enough to obliterate all but the most obvious tracks and signs in short order, so a genuinely calm day presents a rare opportunity for doing some tracking. Sure enough, the beach showed evidence of at least one Fox having walked the strand-line, doubtless hoping to find something tasty (or at least vaguely edible) washed up by the tide.

Fox tracks are easily recognised not just by the individual footprints (which are dainty, diamond-shaped and often with little sharp claw-marks at the front of each print, as in the photo above), but also by their pattern. Foxes generally move very efficiently – that is to say in straight lines, with no effort or energy unnecessarily expended – and this produces an in-line spoor which is distinctively neat and tidy. These are the tracks of an animal on a mission.

While Fox footprints could potentially be confused with those of a smallish domestic dog, the pattern of dog prints is usually much less organised and more chaotic. Instead of being direct and efficient like a Fox, they tend to weave hither and thither, with obvious changes in speed and direction. The differences can plainly be seen in the photos above and below.

The differences between the tracks left by wild and domestic animals can tell us much about their respective lifestyles. A domestic dog, for example, basically has a free ride in life, and doesn’t have to worry about where its next meal is coming from, or whether it can find somewhere to shelter from the elements. As such, it can afford to burn up energy at random, because energy is freely available (it usually comes out of a tin or a packet!). Thus its tracks reflect this high-energy lifestyle, bouncing around excitably all over the place.

By contrast, the Fox cannot afford such frivolities. It has to work hard for its place in the world, and indeed for its very survival, not least during the lean days of winter. Unlike a domestic pet, the Fox must earn every calorie, and waste none of them, in order to get by in life. This explains the efficient, economical gait, and the resultant straight-line spoor left behind. Foxes often ‘direct register’, whereby the hindpaws land in the footprints created by the forepaws, and this helps them save energy when walking in a soft substrate like sand or snow. These small percentage savings can mean the difference between life and death for a wild animal.

Turning away from the beach and heading across to the estuary, the calm atmospheric conditions made for a serene scene, with the becalmed waters and tidal mudflats reflecting the wintry sky. Life here goes on apace, however, and a quick scan over the river with the binoculars revealed the usual selection of wading-birds and waterfowl feeding quietly but busily. For our wildlife, a settled week represents an opportunity to feed well, and thus accumulate some crucial energy reserves, as a means of insurance against the harder times that may lie ahead during the forthcoming winter.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the Reserve, the scene at Sand Loch wasn’t quite so serene. A big disturbance among the ducks on Tuesday morning, with Mallards scattering in all directions, revealed itself to be a rare daytime sighting of an Otter.

The same morning also saw a different brand of chaos on the loch, with both Mute and Whooper Swans to the fore. The loch’s resident pair of Mute Swans are notoriously grumpy and intolerant of other swans on their patch, and consequently the itinerant Whoopers, who had just dropped in for a rest on their travels, soon wisely chose to relocate somewhere less controversial. Off they went to a musical chorus of bugling calls, the sound echoing off the surrounding sandhills and carrying for miles in the still air.

As it happened, they might have been OK to stay a bit longer, because the resident Mute Swans were entirely preoccupied with some other interlopers. In fact they were unable to contain their rage, for here were a second pair of Mute Swans, potential rivals for the territory. How very dare they?! This situation was only ever going to end one way…

…FIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For a special treat, here’s a wee video of some swan-style mixed martial arts in progress.

The situation eventually resolved itself and the intruders were moved on, and by the time dusk arrived, peace had finally been restored to the loch. Till next time anyway.

So that leaves us with one more working week this year then, and just a small mountain of stuff to get done before we knock off for the festive break. No getting de-mob happy for us just yet though. Nothing for it but to keep calm and carry on!

What a contrast we’ve experienced during this past week between the hours of daylight and the hours of darkness. More often than not, the nights have been wet, windy and wild, and the days in between have been gloriously settled and sunny. This is the total inverse of what usually happens here (or so it seems), and as such the dry days were very much appreciated by those of us who work outdoors. It’s been a case of ‘make the best of it while you can’.

Tuesday early was bright, sharp and cold in the best traditions of an early winter morning. A great day, in fact, for a trip along the beach in the pickup truck, in order to cross some odd jobs off the ‘to do’ list prior to the end of the working year (which is approaching with terrifying speed). Now I must confess at this point that I’m personally not very keen on driving, either on or off-road. I positively detest having to do battle with traffic-filled roads in built-up areas, and have an equally passionate dislike of being clattered around inside a bouncy 4×4. But on a morning such as we had on Tuesday, this surely was the acceptable face of motoring.

Actually the main reason for the trip down the beach was to reinstate one of the temporary signs advising folk to avoid the seal haul-out. Over the course of the weekend, some helpful soul had taken it upon him- or herself to haul the sign over, presumably because they didn’t like being told what to do (or even, in this case, politely asked). Sigh.

There are two points to make here. Firstly, we don’t put up signs like these just to be awkward, or to unnecessarily restrict people’s rights of responsible access (the clue’s in the title here) – it’s done to protect the wildlife, on a site of international importance for its wildlife. Fair enough, surely?

Secondly, Forvie is a National Nature Reserve, and is publicly-owned. This means it belongs to all of Scotland’s people, and not just those individuals who see it as their ‘right’ to do as they please wherever and whenever they see fit. In other words, it’s not anybody’s personal playground, but instead it’s a place for everyone’s benefit and enjoyment (not to mention that of its wildlife). So it’s frustrating for us, as site managers, when we meet with selfish attitudes on the part of individuals – though to our eternal gratitude, these remain in the minority. Ultimately, all we ask is that people try and see the bigger picture, if that’s not too steep a request: spare a thought for Forvie’s wildlife and other visitors (and even the staff, if you’re feeling especially generous). Sorry, rant over now!

Even in the short, cold days of December, the waters and mudflats of the Ythan Estuary remain vibrant with life. The low winter sun made for some lovely photographic opportunities among Forvie’s waterfowl. With ducks having stolen the show last week, this time around it was the wading-birds who posed most obligingly for the camera.

The flocks of Lapwing and Golden Plover on the Sleek of Tarty (the broad basin of the estuary just upstream from the A975 road bridge) were especially enjoyable. But for being so familiar to us, the Lapwing would surely be considered one of the more exotic-looking birds of the northern latitudes of Europe. Dressed to the nines with metallic green jacket, shining white waistcoat, broad black cravat and extravagant headgear, this species is among the real dandies of the natural world.

When Lapwings take flight, their appearance is no less striking. Bouncing along on broad, rounded wings, individual birds in a flock appear to flash black and white as they alternately show their dark upperwings and white underwings. This serves to give the flock a sparkling, winking, blinking brilliance, and the effect is seen at its best in the low sun of midwinter.

The last stop on our regular waterfowl censuses is at Logie Buchan bridge, just east of the town of Ellon, and at the upper tidal reach of the Ythan Estuary. The bridge, originally erected as a memorial to the First World War, has long been closed to road traffic. It remains open for pedestrians and cyclists, however, and it provides a splendid view over one of the more tranquil corners of the Reserve. Here, on either side of the river channel, stand the Logie Buchan reedbeds, a little wetland paradise and a unique habitat in a local context.

The reedbed here is home to wetland specialists like Reed Buntings and Water Rails, though the latter tend to be elusive and are heard more often than seen. It’s also the site of my sole Bearded Tit sighting at Forvie, way back in July 2006, and to this day I still scan the tops of the reeds here hoping that one day I might see another one!

Meanwhile the odd jobs and mundane chores continue unabated, and we owe a debt of thanks to volunteers Elaine and Richard for cleaning up and repainting the waymarkers around the Heath Trail. In the workshop, it’s the season for repairing and maintaining the Reserve’s machinery (as I say, the fun never stops here), and Danny duly got Forvie’s two chainsaws fettled on Friday morning. In truth it was far too nice a day to be stuck indoors, but needs must and all that. With the saws sorted, that just leaves a lawn mower, two brushcutters and a sickle-bar mower to go – a feast of cleaning, sharpening, tuning and oil-changing. Happy days.

By the time this piece goes to press (so to speak), we’ll have endured another named storm – Darragh this time, apparently. As I said at the outset, you have to make the best of the fine days as and when they happen, and resort to doing your desk work when they don’t!

Right, that’s me away to batten down the hatches then. See you next week!

So that’s November been and gone then, having burned brightly and briefly like a birchwood fire, and now all that remain are the glowing embers of 2024 as we bear down on another new year. Indeed, the past month certainly produced its share of fiery sunrises and sunsets, their warm colours contrasting with the icy-blue days in between. If November was an accurate foretelling of the winter to come, then we could be in for a chilly one here in the North-east.

In typical fashion for November, the day-to-day work tends not to be as exciting as the skyscape. This week’s fare included such eagerly-anticipated tasks as the annual clearing of Forvie’s ditches and drains, and we were exceptionally grateful for volunteer Richard’s help with this mundane but essential job. This is spade work in the literal sense, and not the sort of stuff that people think of when they imagine what nature reserve staff get up to (the common presumption is that we spend all day looking at wildlife, which would be nice). It’s one of those jobs that nobody notices – yet if it didn’t get done, it’d get noticed very quickly.

Likewise the replacement of the sorry-looking and increasingly wonky bridge over the ditch at the Coastguard’s Pool, on the outer reaches of the Heath Trail. This has been on our radar for some time, but it’s not until November that we’ve had the time to actually sort it out. As regular readers will be well aware, both life and work at Forvie follow a distinct annual routine, bound up with the seasonal rhythms of wildlife and weather. Within this, November is typically the odd-jobbing month, and this past week’s tasks have been a case in point.

As is always the case, we try to avoid consuming new materials whenever we can. So in this case, it was a good result that we were able to modify and re-use an old piece of boardwalk recovered from elsewhere on the Reserve, rather than purchasing new timber. It’s only a tiny step in the crucial global push for sustainability, but as the supermarket ad famously says, every little helps.

Anyway, enough talk of these mundane chores. Catriona at least was able to tear herself away from the ditches and drains long enough to get out onto the estuary on a beautiful late November morning, where the wildfowl made for a fine sight in the crisp sunshine. Forvie’s Eiders arguably look their best at this time of the year, having recently moulted into their full breeding finery.

Ducks are among the first of all wild creatures to start thinking about the following year’s breeding season, and as well as the resplendent plumage, their behaviour also reflects this forward-looking approach to life. The Eider drakes, for example, have already begun head-tossing, bowing and cooing in an attempt to impress the ladies.

The Eiders’ efforts, though, looked quite half-hearted next to the Red-breasted Mergansers cavorting nearby. The drakes, looking rakish with their swept-back hairdos and starched white collars, can throw some frankly ridiculous shapes while trying to make an impression on the females, who appear to drift around them with an air of detached disdain. Perhaps it’s just too early in the season yet!

While the still photos give an impression of what’s happening, you can’t beat a video to show the full ludicrousness of it all.

Impressing the ladies is high on the agenda for Forvie’s Grey Seal bulls too. Catriona snapped this lovely photo, taken from Newburgh beach, of a wily old beachmaster with a veritable harem of females. This guy is surely the Barry White of the seal world: a true man’s man and ladies’ favourite. In fact, we wondered whether this fella might be the father of some (or all) of this year’s pups at the Forvie seal haul-out.

Speaking of which, this week also saw the arrival of the fourth newborn pup of the season – although this one was a bit harder to see than its predecessors. Just as Catriona was squinting through the ‘scope trying to decide whether the amorphous pale shape on the strand-line was animal, vegetable or mineral, it waved a flipper at her as if to answer the question.

Also present on the beach at Newburgh were a handful of Sanderlings, the little clockwork-toy-like wading birds that can be seen following the waves in and out, picking up morsels of food as they do so. If you’re reasonably quiet, and take care not to make any sudden movements, these diminutive beach-runners can be quite confiding, sometimes giving lovely views at close range in the low sunshine. Their small size and delicate appearance belie the fact that these are long-haul travellers, spending their summers in Iceland and Greenland before heading south-east to our shores for the winter.

Also this week, we were grateful to local photographer John Strachan, who kindly sent us some photos of a Merlin that he had encountered while walking along Forvie beach. Merlins are our smallest bird of prey, with the jacks (males) no bigger than a large thrush. These are the avian equivalent of the old Soviet MiG-21 fighter plane: small, lightweight, hard to spot when approaching, and deadly in an ambush situation, though equally able to engage in a dogfight if needs be.

With the element of surprise on its side, a Merlin is a very effective hunter indeed, but in open air-to-air combat, it’s more of a 50/50 between the Merlin and its prey. In the past I have seen extraordinary pursuits by Merlins of small passerines such as Skylarks; these are breathtaking to watch, with gravity-defying manoeuvres and sudden changes of altitude, and can end either in capture or escape, depending on the tenacity and stamina of both predator and prey. But if I had to describe the Merlin using a single word, it would surely have to be ‘dashing’.

As the light starts to fade at the end of a fine November day, with a fiery sunset on the south-western horizon and the crunch of frost underfoot, it’s hard to imagine anywhere else on earth that can compare with this place. Not that I’m biased or anything. Just saying.

Onwards into December then, and the last embers of the old year. But it’s just three weeks now until the year turns, the days start to lengthen once more, and we’ll start to think about getting back in the saddle to do it all over again…

At the end of last week’s blog, we mooted the idea that we might see some snow during the next few days. Right enough, no sooner had we hit the ‘publish’ button than the first few flakes started drifting past the window and settling on the grass outside. By the time Monday morning rolled around, the Reserve and much of the North-east lay under a pristine white blanket. Winter, it appeared, had come early this year.

This wasn’t exactly ideal timing, as we had some travelling to do. The Forvie crew – Catriona, Danny and myself – had agreed to help out with some tree-cutting work at Flanders Moss NNR down in Stirlingshire for a couple of days. This involved a 150-mile trek south-west, which we imagined might be quite ‘interesting’ in the prevailing conditions. But much to our surprise, the 3-4″ of snow at Forvie dwindled to maybe 1-2″ at Westhill, and none at all by the time we passed Stonehaven. By now it had cleared into a beautifully crisp and cold day, and we arrived at Flanders in bright sunshine and hoar-frost. What a contrast to our native North-east!

Flanders Moss is a wonderful and extensive area of lowland peat bog, renowned chiefly for being the long-time stamping ground of former Forvie warden Dave Pickett. In fact, Dave left Flanders a few years back (having famously said that he didn’t want to, and I quote, “do an Elvis and die on the bog”), handing the reins to present-day reserve manager Amee. One of the perennial jobs to be undertaken at Flanders is the removal of trees from the bog, in order to prevent the peat from drying out (trees consume an enormous amount of water when they’re actively growing). This entails a huge amount of hard graft, so Amee rounded up a motley crew of staff from various other NNRs including Forvie, Loch Leven, Tentsmuir and Muir of Dinnet to help out – many hands make light work and all that.

After two very satisfying days’ work, it was time to head back to Forvie again, but not before posing for a snap for the family album – after all, it’s rare enough these days that we get to meet up with our NNR colleagues in person. How’s this for a Crimewatch-style line-up? From left to right: Sally, Simon, Amee (with Oatie the bog dog), Marijke, Daryl (with chainsaw), Alex, Danny, Catriona, Jeremy, Stuart, John and Steve. What a team.

On returning to base on Wednesday afternoon, it was clear there had been even more snow since we left on Monday morning, in contrast to the two fabulously clear days we’d experienced further south. The fresh water of Cotehill Loch remained hard-frozen, with a party of Whooper Swans sitting on the thick layer of ice. These are hardy birds though, content enough to wait things out until a thaw sets in. Note in the photo below the three juvenile birds to the front left of the group; identifiable by their silver-grey plumage and lack of yellow on the bill, these would have hatched in Iceland during the summer of 2024. I can only hope that their summer weather was better than ours!

The estuary, meanwhile, was icy, windswept and bitterly cold – but very photogenic for all that. It was undoubtedly best viewed from the cab of the pickup truck, with the heater at full chat.

A wader-and-wildfowl count on Friday produced inflated numbers of ducks such as Wigeon and Teal, at least some of which had probably been frozen off the freshwater bodies further inland. Waders, however, were present in modest numbers for the most part. It seemed that some species, such as Curlew and Lapwing, were happier feeding among the snowy stubble-fields than on the achingly-cold mudflats of the estuary in the relentless windchill. Having spent three hours or so undertaking the count, and been frozen to the bone in the process, I couldn’t say I blamed them.

Towards the end of the week, with temperatures having remained around freezing-point for several days, we started to notice some cold-weather refugees in the gardens of Collieston on the Reserve’s north-eastern boundary. One of the more predictable species to appear in these conditions is the Redwing, a common migrant and winter visitor to our region. Despite being quite numerous, their shy-and-retiring nature makes them difficult to observe, and they seldom give close-up views. But prolonged cold weather can embolden them into visiting gardens in search of food, in lieu of their usual haunts of woodland and pasture. This week was a case in point, and Catriona photographed the individual below in our front yard on Thursday morning.

Shortly after this, my pre-work cuppa was interrupted by what sounded a bit like a Common Partridge calling just outside the window. This of course couldn’t be right, as Partridges are birds of open country, not villages and gardens. I must just be going bonkers, I thought; nothing new there. Even so, I got out of my seat to check it out – and spied a neat little set of footprints on the path outside the house…

My eyes followed the tracks into the adjacent flowerbed, and sure enough…

Here, literally right outside the window, was a little covey of four Common (or Grey) Partridge. Like the aforementioned Redwing, these are usually painfully shy, and we usually only see them when we accidentally flush them out from under our feet in the grassland of the Reserve. Hence the usual view is of a party of plump little birds rocketing away with a chorus of rusty-metal-like ‘rick-rick-rick‘ calls. But to see them at close quarters, oblivious to their observers, and in the perfect light of a snowy morning, was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of opportunity. And what handsome little birds too! Accordingly, Catriona unloaded the magazine of the camera at them – who knows if we’ll ever see them as well as this again?

The sad reality is that Common Partridges aren’t actually common these days at all; like so many other species, they have declined massively and are already extinct in many parts of their former range. The relatively undisturbed grassland of the Reserve provides them with a rare refuge – with the option of the occasional visit to a garden feeding-station when times are hard! There’s no doubt we’re lucky to still have a healthy population of these colourful and characterful birds in our local area.

So although the cold and the snow isn’t much fun if you need to travel anywhere, on the other hand it can provide some unexpected and first-class entertainment in terms of wildlife. I for one reckon that’s a pretty fair deal. Let it snow!

If this week’s title isn’t the name of a children’s book, or a prog rock concept-album, then in my opinion it ought to be. I’m aware that we tend to pick some slightly eccentric titles for these weekly updates, but this is probably a fair reflection of the eclectic nature of life and work on the Reserve throughout the year.

True to form, this week produced some really warm days, some really cold days, some misty drizzly days and some crystal-clear ones. The latter were a real treat on which to be out and about, in particular Monday, which happened to coincide with the monthly check of the footpaths and visitor infrastructure. Visited during late afternoon on the finest autumn day imaginable, and with a mirror-calm North Sea as a backdrop, Hackley Bay was a vision of paradise.

Actually, there was an added reason for touring the footpaths this week – and not just to enjoy the sunshine. Fact is, we’re needing to come up with a plan for the future. As we’re all-too-often reminded, we’re living through a time of great environmental change, not least when it comes to weather and climate. In case anyone hasn’t noticed, we have endured some prodigiously wet weather during this past few years, and as a result, flooding of the footpaths has become increasingly frequent and prolonged in recent seasons. In the long run, it’s not going to be possible to maintain the current network of paths without some serious hard engineering and significant drainage work, which we’re keen to avoid for a number of reasons.

Wetlands are brilliant for wildlife as well as having a critical function in sequestering carbon, so the last thing we want to do is to be ruthlessly draining the land, especially on a nature reserve of all places, and in the middle of a climate and biodiversity crisis to boot. Instead it’s up to us to work with nature, rather than against it. If nature decides that a certain part of the Reserve ought to be wet, then we’re not going to argue with that, or spend large sums of taxpayers’ money fighting against it. So in the case of the footpaths, we will almost certainly have to re-route some of the trails in the medium to long term, in order to get the best out of Forvie for both wildlife and people.

With the latter half of this autumn having seen relatively low rainfall, the heath is actually drier just now than it’s been for upwards of eighteen months. Interestingly, though, it’s possible to identify the winter flood level by the absence of Cladonia lichens, which are killed off by prolonged immersion. These are the light blue-green lichens that give the heath its beautiful patchwork effect, and now in late November with the vegetation having died back, they are looking their best among the dormant heathers.

Down on the estuary, meanwhile, the sunshine was being enjoyed by Forvie’s Grey Seals. The first of 2024’s pups, born in late October, is now looking very well-fed and content with life. In fact it appeared so well-fed that it was barely able to move, and Catriona had to watch it intently for a few minutes to confirm that it was indeed alive and well. The photo below, with the mature seals in the foreground for scale, gives an idea of how rapidly the youngster has grown since birth.

With the pup still wearing its baby-coat of white fur, it stood out like the proverbial sore thumb on the beach, and was easily seen from the viewpoint at the end of the Newburgh boardwalk. It’s even visible in the zoomed-out photo below. There can’t be too many places in the world where viewing seals is as easy as this!

A little further along the beach, and closer still to the viewpoint, was the latest new arrival – this the third pup to be born at Forvie so far this year.

Nearby in the dunes, some of our winter visitors are settling in for the season. If you see a dense little flock of small birds bouncing around the beach or the ternery area, giving voice to a chorus of metallic twanging and twittering calls as they go, you’ll have spotted our wintering Twite. These charismatic little finches make a living from eating the seeds of the Marram Grass on the dunes – a reliable if rather unexciting source of food throughout the harsh winter months.

Twite are closely related to Linnets, which are resident year-round at Forvie, and the two species often mix together in the winter flocks. The photo below contains seven and a half Twite (of which at least two are bearing coloured leg-rings courtesy of Grampian Ringing Group, as part of a long-term study) plus a single Linnet – top marks to any reader who can spot them all!

We’ve also welcomed back our first Snow Buntings of the winter too, and like the aforementioned Twite, they are likely to be found among the Marrams or along the strand-line of the beach. On the ground they can be surprisingly inconspicuous, with their white, buff and oatmeal-coloured plumage breaking up their outline remarkably effectively. It’s when they take flight that they suddenly become obvious, with the males in particular showing strikingly bold white panels in the wings. This lends the birds the affectionate nickname of ‘snowflakes’, with a passing flock evoking the impression of a flurry of snow driven before the wind.

Another fine day on Tuesday was spent at the lovely Muir of Dinnet NNR, where I had been borrowed to drive the Giant Snail for the day. I really can’t complain about the lack of variety in this job.

The snail in question is actually the Softrak machine, a three-ton cross between a Sherman tank and a combine harvester. It’s an all-terrain machine which exerts a very low pressure on the ground, allowing it to go almost anywhere, and it is fitted with a flail bar mower and a hopper to collect the cuttings. Reserve manager Simon has arranged a six-week loan of the machine in order to cut the wildflower meadow areas and the rough fields where a few pairs of Lapwings nest each year. This will help to suppress the growth of rank grasses, and keep these areas in good condition for wildlife.

The working week ended with a magnificent full moon on a lovely Friday evening. Apparently the November full moon is known as the ‘Beaver moon’, marking the point in the year at which these aquatic rodents retreat into their lodges to see out the winter. Beavers have, of course, made a comeback in Scotland during the past two decades after a long absence, but with our relatively treeless landscape, we may have to wait some time before our first record at Forvie!

That about wraps things up for this week then – and with a northerly airflow forecast for the next few days, we’d be well advised to wrap up too. This time next week we may be reporting upon the first snow of the winter – watch this space!

And so another lively week comes to an end, with plenty of interest on offer for Forvie’s staff and visitors alike – so much for November being a quiet month. Over the past few days, occasional spells of sunshine and unseasonably warm temperatures have been interspersed with some murky, damp and chilly periods, necessitating constant reassessment of how many layers to put on. And by the end of the week, things had begun to feel decidedly wintry, in terms of both weather and wildlife.

Cotehill Loch played host to a wonderful wildlife spectacle this week. As we reported recently, Whooper Swans have been arriving from the north, using our local area as a motorway service-station on their long journeys from Iceland to eastern England or southern Scotland. But things went up a gear this week, and we received what the great conservationist Peter Scott would have termed a ‘swanfall’. On a lovely but chilly Thursday morning, the tiny loch held no fewer than 274 Whoopers; it appeared as though you could have walked across the water on their backs. The ghostly pale shapes of the swans in the mist, combined with the burbling chorus of their voices in the cold morning air, created a scene best described as ‘atmospheric’ to say the least. But as soon as the day fully broke, so the swans melted away into the surrounding countryside, and the spell was broken.

The dew-heavy, chilly mornings weren’t at all helpful for the local spider population, whose beautifully-constructed and usually-invisible webs were suddenly made blindingly obvious to prey and predators alike. Although this was doubtless a bit inconvenient for the spiders, it did make for an attractive display in the morning light.

Following last week’s frenzy of sign-making in the Reserve workshop (as a result of which my knees are still recovering from kneeling on the cold concrete floor), by the end of this week we had finished installing all the new seal-related signage out on the Reserve. This will hopefully help to keep the seals safe from disturbance during this next sensitive few weeks while pupping is in progress.

And not a moment too soon either. Mid-week saw the appearance of our second newborn Grey Seal pup of the season, on the estuary opposite the old lifeboat station. However, it soon became apparent that all was not well, with mum nowhere to be seen, and the pup looking increasingly weak and distressed. It appeared the pup had been abandoned at birth; although we can’t be sure of the reason why, it is possible that the mother had been spooked by people setting off fireworks at Newburgh beach the previous evening.

In case there’s any confusion about the legalities of such activity, the law is actually very clear on this. Setting off fireworks on public land in Scotland is a criminal offence, and if you see anyone doing so on the Reserve, it’s simply a case of calling the police. What might seem like a bit of harmless fun can cause serious distress to wildlife (and indeed other people), and it’s certainly not appropriate on or near a nature reserve. Common sense, you might think – but then again, sense isn’t perhaps as common as it ought to be…

Happily for the abandoned pup though, help was at hand. The everyday heroes from British Divers Marine Life Rescue attended the scene later the same day, and were able to catch the orphan and transport it to those other everyday heroes at the New Arc rescue centre, where it will be looked after until weaned. Hopefully it will later be released back into its natural environment, to resume its life after this most difficult of starts.

We spent a couple of days this week studying waterfowl on the estuary, firstly for a routine wader-and-wildfowl count, and secondly for an all-day field trip from the University of Aberdeen. The latter took place on Thursday, and despite a nice bright start, the day became increasingly cold and dreich as the hours rolled by. Many of the visiting students had to spend several hours carrying out fieldwork on the exposed shores of the estuary in the grim prevailing conditions, and we hope that the experience didn’t put them all off field biology for life.

Three groups of students were tasked with a bird survey exercise, and the Reserve staff were present to assist with species identification and offer advice about survey techniques. I have been assisting with work like this for many years now, but still cringe every time I get introduced by the university staff as an ‘expert’. I am unequivocally a jack-of-all-trades, and thus not an expert in anything; as a naturalist you are always acutely aware of all the stuff you don’t know!

Even as a generalist, though, I do know enough to separate my Black-tailed from my Bar-tailed Godwit, and my Grey from my Golden Plover, and so on. Good job, too…

Actually, the Golden Plover flock that caused consternation among the students (how do you go about counting a moving flock like the one in the photo above?) contained some additional intrigue. The view through the telescope was poor due to the distance and dim light (is it just me, or does the image below look more like Jupiter than a flock of birds on an estuary???), but nevertheless there was gold waiting to be found, both literally and figuratively.

A sharp-eyed local observer scanning the flock managed to pick out an American Golden Plover among the massed ranks of its European cousins, and Catriona and I (eventually) caught up with it too. Trust me, this wasn’t quite as easy to locate in a flock as last month’s white Snow Goose!

But for all the wintry feel to proceedings, some species at Forvie are still clinging on in defiance of the turning of the seasons. Some flowering plants, such as Ragwort, Yarrow and Red Campion, continue to bloom well into November, to the benefit of any late-flying insects. But it was still a bit of a surprise to find the delicate purplish flowers of Bluebells persisting among the dunes.

November a dull month then? Not based on this past week’s showing. Who knows what the rest of the month might bring…

The departure of October, and consequent arrival of November, marks something of a milepost in Forvie’s year. With the clocks having gone back an hour last weekend, daylight now becomes a limiting factor at the end of the working day. Consequently when there’s work to be done outdoors, we often end up shifting our whole daily routine to match. I must admit that in the 21st Century, when most of us are far removed from the turning of the seasons, this approach feels quite life-affirming: we are tied in with the natural rhythm of night and day, rather than what the clock is telling us.

On the credit side, sunset now occurs during ‘normal’ working hours, allowing for the occasional photo opportunity while the works phone or camera are still switched on. And after the year we’ve had, where clear evenings (and days, for that matter) have been painfully scarce, we have resolved to make the best of all these opportunities!

Arguably the most exciting news of the week actually occurred during the course of the previous weekend, after the last blog post had been written and scheduled. Down at the mouth of the Ythan, the first newborn Grey Seal pup of the season appeared. This may turn out to be the first of several: last year there were eight pups born at Forvie between October and December, so we hope to see a few more appearing in the coming weeks. Local naturalist Ron Macdonald was out on Newburgh beach early one morning, and using a long lens to foreshorten the distance, he captured this lovely image of the new arrival, lit by rose-gold morning sunlight.

Ron, of course, was photographing across the water from the southern shore of the estuary at Newburgh, rather than approaching from the Forvie side. As we’ve said countless times in these missives, this is the only safe and considerate way to view the seal haul-out (and in any case, the views and light are better from Newburgh too).

We’ve spoken to lots of different people about their views on the Forvie seal haul-out, and about public access to the Forvie side of the Ythan mouth. As a result, the current advice is to avoid the haul-out area altogether: if you’re walking around South Forvie, please cut through the dunes from the estuary to the beach (or vice versa), instead of walking around the point where the seals are hauled out.

We’re currently working on a new set of signs which will go out on site to explain this situation to visitors. This really has been a team effort: Catriona agreed the wording with all the other stakeholders, both internal and external to NatureScot; Danny did the clever stuff on the computer to actually design the signs; and once these were printed and delivered, it was my job to mount them on sturdy posts and frames. This was a case of making best use of team members’ individual strengths – which in my case meant knocking bits of wood together, rather than diplomacy or computer-aided design…

The last of these should be finished and installed out on the Reserve by the end of the coming week. Hopefully they should provide a clear and unequivocal message to our visitors about how to enjoy the Reserve without harming its sensitive wildlife. But I appreciate that for regular readers of these pages, this is a case of preaching to the choir, and we’re really grateful to those folk who already treat Forvie with the respect it deserves.

Backing up the message this year, of course, is the superb new viewing facility at Newburgh, which allows people of all ages and abilities to access the beach and get great views of the seal haul-out. As I said earlier on, at this location you nearly always have the daylight behind you, so good viewing is more or less guaranteed. So if you want to see this year’s new arrivals, this is the way to go!

Newburgh beach also happens to be the first stop on our regular waterfowl censuses. These take place more or less weekly, on alternate low and high tides to catch up with a variety of key species. In exactly the same way as people viewing the seals, we benefit from the favourable light and panoramic view offered by the south shore of the estuary – as well as saving ourselves a long hike on the Forvie side.

Among the usual suspects, this week’s waterfowl count also produced two species of egrets. Once rare at this latitude, both Little and Great White Egrets are steadily pushing northwards with our warming climate, extending their range from their traditional strongholds in the Mediterranean region. Given a decent view, they’re easily told apart: the Little Egret is small (about half the size of a Grey Heron) with a black legs and yellow feet, and a black beak. The Great White is unsurprisingly much bigger (even taller than a Grey Heron, but slimmer and less bulky) with black legs and feet, and a yellow beak during the non-breeding season. At this point in time the Little Egret is far the commoner of the two, though both are on the increase here.

Following last week’s report of Small Tortoiseshell butterflies entering buildings, it was a Red Admiral this week that was caught in the act at the Forvie Centre. Like the Tortoiseshell, these have dark underwings with a bit of cryptic patterning, which makes them look a bit like dead leaves when they’re roosting with the wings closed. It’s only when they open the wings that their true identity is revealed. It’s possible that this is the last one of these we’ll see this year, as the majority of flying insects make their departure from the stage until next spring.

This week’s most significant departure, though, is that of seasonal warden Joe, whose six-month contract has flown by alarmingly quickly. Joe has been an integral part of the Forvie team over this past few months, and his immense enthusiasm, dedication and keenness to learn have been an inspiration to old-timers Catriona and I. He has also formed a brilliant partnership (and comedy double-act) with Danny, the two of them doing a magnificent job of running the Reserve at weekends throughout the busy summer period. As well as possessing a ferocious work ethic, Joe has also been great company; just don’t ever challenge him to a raw chill-eating contest (don’t ask).

Keep in touch, fella – we’ll miss you!

Visitors to Forvie last Saturday afternoon may be forgiven for perhaps wondering what the sam hill was going on. The Forvie Centre car park was wedged solid with cars, and a procession of camouflage-clad figures carrying enormous cameras and expensive-looking binoculars hurried along the road towards Mains of Collieston farm. While the scenes might have passed for some sort of bizarre fun-run, with all the participants each carrying a hundredweight of optical equipment, the truth was unsurprisingly a bit more prosaic. A rare bird was in town: an Isabelline Wheatear, just the second of its kind ever to be seen in North-east Scotland. Given the only previous record was in 1979, we might have to wait some time before we see another one – hence the controlled chaos on Saturday afternoon.

As is often the case, the Forvie staff were at the root of the chaos. Danny and Joe were returning from Waterside for their lunch break when the wheatear crossed the road dangerously close to the windscreen of the works van, prompting a Hot Fuzz-type comedy moment (but instead of “SWAAAAAN!!!” it was “WHEEEATEEEAR!!!” followed by an emergency brake application). I happened to see Danny shortly afterwards as he popped home to collect his lunch, and he mentioned having seen this pale-looking, apparently-suicidal wheatear along the road by the farm. Here at Forvie we don’t see many ordinary (=Northern) Wheatears this late in the year, so Catriona and I duly went to check it out in case it was something unusual. The rest is now all ornithological history.

OK, an Isabelline Wheatear then: a nice rare bird, literally just over the fence from the Reserve. Probably having come all the way from Asia, for reasons best known to itself. But why the curious name? Well, the Wheatear bit is easy enough: it’s a typically straightforward piece of Anglo-Saxon. Several species of wheatear have a distinctive white rump, the Isabelline version being no exception. The archaic ‘wheat eare’ thus translates literally as ‘white arse’.

The Isabelline bit refers to the bird’s colouration – a kind of sandy-buff, or if we’re being totally and harshly uncomplimentary, a dirty off-white. There are several (probably apocryphal) stories of the origin of the term ‘isabelline’ for this colour, but my personal favourite involves Queen Isabella of Spain. When her husband King Ferdinand II laid siege to Granada in April 1491, Isabella declared that she would not change her linen undergarments until her husband returned from the siege (presumably in the belief that it wouldn’t last very long). In the event, the siege lasted until January the following year, with the predictable result that Isabella’s underwear had by this time become somewhat discoloured. This story may be splendidly revolting, and probably not even true, but nevertheless I’m running with it. Even if it does do rough justice to what was actually a very attractive little bird.

Following Saturday’s excitement – and what was surely the most interest there’s been in dirty linen since a dim-and-distant Presidential impeachment – we were brought back down to earth with a bump on the Sunday. Storm Ashley, the first named storm of the 2024/25 season, assaulted our coast with high winds, lashing rain and pounding seas. For the weekend staff, this was a day to catch up on some admin tasks, and for once be grateful for them!

Once the storm had cleared through, the rest of the week produced a good deal of what’s been a very precious commodity this year – sunshine. The clear conditions also prompted a southward movement of wildfowl, including numerous skeins of Pink-footed Geese, whose pleasant clamour filled the sky as they tracked along the coast or dropped in on the estuary for a break.

Later in the week, there was a noticeable increase in Whooper Swans in our area, with dawn and dusk flights taking place at Cotehill Loch, and parties of birds also periodically roosting on the estuary during the day. The bugle calls of these wild swans are surely one of the most evocative sounds in the entire natural world – not least at this time of the season, when they are freshly-arrived off the long oversea journey from Iceland – and in chorus from a flock they have a distinctly musical quality. Little wonder that many of our European neighbours know this species, in their respective languages, as the ‘singing swan’.

A mid-week waterfowl census on the estuary produced generally modest numbers of waders and wildfowl. A combination of mild weather, an abundance of wet and flooded fields for the birds to feed in post-Storm Ashley, and a blocking south-westerly airflow hindering immigration from the north-east, have resulted in a relatively quiet estuary of late. On the flip side, we at least enjoyed some pleasant viewing conditions for once!

On Thursday we were ‘borrowed’ off-site for part of the day to assist with some estate work at Muir of Dinnet NNR. The chief task was clearing windblown trees, courtesy of Storm Ashley, which were blocking a footpath and a vehicle track. This was a great opportunity for Danny to get some time on the chainsaw, having successfully passed his felling and cross-cutting assessment earlier in the year. With the added assistance of three relative old-timers – Simon, Catriona and myself – and four well-maintained saws, the team made quick work of dismantling what had once been a magnificent old Ash. But while the stately giant will be sadly lamented, over time its fallen timbers will provide invaluable homes for a host of invertebrates and fungi. Nothing in nature ever goes to waste.

Lastly, it’s that time of year where we often hear reports of butterflies turning up in houses, garages and sheds. These reports most often pertain to Small Tortoiseshells, which overwinter as adults and seek shelter in our buildings. The biggest danger to them is waking up at the wrong time of year, that is to say before spring has actually arrived. So they’re better off in a cool, unheated space like a garage or outbuilding, where they are subject to outdoor temperatures, than in a heated house wherein they might wake up too early. So if you find a butterfly fluttering around in one of your windows, try transferring it to a cool and sheltered spot where it can bed down safely for the winter.

So, that concludes airing all our dirty linen, for this week at least. Ooh, now there’s an idea – since birders can be superstitious types, maybe we’ll wear the same underwear till the next Isabelline Wheatear turns up? After all, it was only 45 years since the last one in this part of the world…

Enough said.

The middle week of October at Forvie proved to have nothing middling about it. This was a week of changing moods and extreme contrasts, the best and worst of autumn all rolled into seven unpredictable days. Probably the biggest contrast occurred mid-week, when we segued from Wednesday – one of the wettest days of the year, and that’s saying something – into Thursday, which was about the finest autumn day you’ll ever see. Try and make sense out of that lot.

One of our annual October duties is the cutting and raking of the meadow areas around the Forvie Centre. By this time of the year, of course, the vast majority of flowering plants have finished doing their stuff for the year, and all that remain are the withered leaves and empty seed-heads supported on dry, dead stems. So it’s a case of cut down the dead vegetation and remove the cuttings, in order to ‘put the meadow to bed’ for the forthcoming winter.

But why bother doing this? After all, meadows and wild flowers haven’t evolved alongside brushcutters and hay-rakes, and don’t necessarily need our help, right? OK, the first part of this statement is true enough… but what they have evolved with is the grazing and ground-disturbance of large herbivores, which have long since disappeared with the taming of the landscape by humans. Essentially then, what we’re now trying to replicate with our brushcutters and hay-rakes is the effect of itinerant herds of wild cattle and horses.

In a natural situation, wildflower-rich meadows are periodically grazed by passing herbivores, which strip the meadow of nutrients and then move on before those nutrients can be returned to the soil in the form of dung. This could be due to the herbivores’ annual life-cycle, which may involve migratory journeys (think antelopes in Africa, or caribou in the Arctic). What basically happens is that nutrients are taken away from the meadow, keeping the soil relatively poor. This works to the advantage of many species of flowers, which are otherwise out-competed by rank grasses when nutrient levels are higher.

Unfortunately, these days Forvie doesn’t have any large itinerant herbivores (and I’m deliberately excluding Roe Deer here, which are neither large nor itinerant, and are more browsers than grazers anyway… but I digress) – so it’s up to us to cut, rake up and remove the vegetation ourselves. Brushcutters and sickle-bar mowers are noisy, shaky and uncomfortable machines to operate, so this is a job best done in small increments. And ideally on dry days too, when the cuttings don’t weigh a ton with all that extra water. So the mixed week we’ve just had was ideal to get a good chunk of the job done, in between some enforced breaks due to the capricious weather.

When we weren’t cutting, raking or cursing the weather, we spent a couple of days during the week carrying out the quarterly inspection of the Reserve’s footpaths and visitor infrastructure. This is a very pleasant job that takes us all around the trails, and gives us a chance to catch up with some wildlife and chat with some visitors in the process. There’s an unfair rumour doing the rounds that I always choose a day with an easterly wind to carry out this particular duty, on the off-chance there might just be some migrant birds on the go – but you’ll understand, of course, that this is pure fiction (even if the trails do pass through some excellent migrant habitat). And besides, there’s plenty more out there than just birds to keep me amused in any case.

Fungi, for instance, are still quite prominent around the trails, even though most of the showy species (like the various colourful waxcaps of early autumn) are now past their best. Dusky Puffballs, however, are a late-autumn speciality, and these are appearing in numerous places throughout North Forvie just now. Their curious forms can often be found right next to the footpaths, and as such are very easy to find.

This next fungus, however, was much less familiar to me at least. I’m not totally sure of the identification, but a bit of typically hurried research pointed me in the direction of Moor Club Fungus, or Clavaria argillacia to give it its proper scientific name. This is an uncommon species, but one that occurs in conjunction with Ling or Common Heather (choose whichever name you prefer, or instead go for the scientific and unequivocal Calluna vulgaris). Ling is, of course, one of the commonest plants on the heath at Forvie, so this would support the identification. But if you think I’m barking up the wrong mushroom, please get in touch – like everyone else, I am still learning and do sometimes make mistakes!

And by the way, in case you were wondering, this is really, really tiny!

Speaking of tiny, most of Forvie’s invertebrates are bedding down for the approaching winter now, but a few insects were still in evidence this week. These ranged from familiar species like the Seven-spot Ladybird…

…to the obscure brown fuzzy caterpillars of the Ruby Tiger moth, which we’ve been seeing quite frequently of late.

With the invertebrates all turning in for the winter, those creatures that eat invertebrates are faced with a two-way choice: either leave for somewhere warmer where there are still insects on the go (like many of our birds), or bed down for the season and wait it out until next spring (like our amphibians). Indeed, this week we encountered several Common Toads presumably looking for somewhere cosy to call home for the next few months.

In fact there were toads from both ends of the size scale, though this can be quite difficult to judge from a photograph alone. For example, the fella in the photo above was about the size of the palm of my hand. This next one, however…

…was somewhat smaller! Using my index finger for scale allows me to put my fingers in front of the camera lens deliberately, for a change; usually I do so simply because I’m an idiot.

With some of our wildlife bound for hibernation stations, we’re now at that time of the year when the shadows, even during the middle of the day, are increasingly long. This was the scene when I visited the trig point during late morning on Thursday.

While some folk may get morose about the lengthening shadows and shortening days, it’s difficult to be downbeat on a day such as we enjoyed on Thursday. It was hard to imagine the Reserve looking any better than this – at any time of the year.

Fine days like this in October are made to be savoured rather than lamented. Enjoy them while they last!

Hi folks! This week I wanted to talk about some of the wonderful winter migrants that are beginning to make appearances on our reserve, as well as hedgerows and gardens across the country. With particular emphasis on Fieldfares and Redwings, as I saw my first large flock of Redwings on a visit to Deeside earlier this week. They were gorging themselves on the bumper crop of Rowan berries found this year. I love hearing the calls of both species as they fly overhead, albeit, not as dramatic as the haunting echoes radiating out from flocks of many hundreds or thousands of Pink-footed Geese, but still atmospheric all the same. The brief and understated ‘tsee’ call of a flock of Redwings or the excited and unstructured “schack-schack-schack” chattering of a bold flock of gregarious fieldfares, acts as a subtle reminder, that harsher and colder times are afoot. The calm before the storm.

So, what are the main differences between Redwings and Fieldfares? Firstly, their migratory patterns to the UK are slightly different. Redwings, especially birds which overwinter in Scotland, mostly migrate from Iceland and the Faroe Islands (a subspecies known as Turdus coburni) with some from Scandinavia (the other subspecies, known as Turdus iliacus) as well. In harsh winters, nearly one million Redwings make the UK their home, when birds from Iceland and the Faroes are also joined by the continental subspecies. They often travel by night, which is why their ‘tsee’ calls are most frequently heard when it’s dark. They spend the winter here, usually from October to April. But quite surprisingly, despite being a subarctic species, Scotland can have nearly 100 pairs in a good breeding year. These breeders are mostly confined to the Northern Isles and high ground of the Highlands, and their Scottish breeding population fluctuates year to year.

So far this autumn, we’ve had quite a lot of northerly and north-westerly winds, which explains why we’re seeing increasing flocks of Redwings – but not so many Fieldfares at the moment. In terms of size, the Redwing is somewhat dainty in comparison to the larger Fieldfare and the English name of this small and elegant thrush, is derived, literally, from the bird’s red underwing. They are closely related to the Song Thrush, which is why they have an extremely similar appearance and size, being approximately 22cm long with a wingspan of around 34cm and up to 75g in weight.

The larger and more aggressive Fieldfares (Turdus pilaris) migrate more or less exclusively from Fennoscandia and Russia, i.e. from a more easterly direction. So, we’re more likely to see many thousands of these thrushes arrive en masse, up to 680,000 birds UK wide, when easterly or north easterly winds start to kick in. Daryl and I were only talking about this recently, that the main prevailing westerly and south-westerly winds (our most common default wind direction – consolidated by climate change) will be undoubtedly causing a pile-up or backlog of Fieldfares on the Scandinavian coasts, until easterlies or north easterlies aid their speedy passage over the North Sea. In terms of UK breeding attempts, the Fieldfare is even scarcer a breeder than the Redwing, at best a handful of breeding pairs can be found, exclusively in Orkney, Shetland and the far northeast of the country. As a UK breeding species, it’s extremely rare status of 1-2 pairs per year, puts it on the Red List, despite it being a very common winter migrant.

These chunky thrushes are typically 25cm long with a wingspan of up to 42cm and can tip the scales at hefty 130g, a big bruiser in comparison to a Redwing! As such, because they are noticeably bigger and heavier than Redwings, Fieldfares tend to be at the top of the pecking order in mixed feeding flocks. More on flock mixing a bit later.

The name ‘Fieldfare’ literally means ‘the traveller through the fields’ and is derived from the Anglo-Saxon ‘feld-fere’. It’s probably named this way because of their constant, never-ending moving and foraging habits. But it’s also been suggested its name may originate from the Old English ‘fealu fearh’, meaning ‘grey piglet’, or ‘socen lwyd’ in old Welsh (which is the same meaning as the Old English). I find the piglet part of the name far too entertaining and will never look at Fieldfares the same way again!

Daryl referred to the Fieldfare as akin to a ‘Viking Raider’ in one of his winter blogs, The Seal of Approval, and to be honest, these feisty and bold birds can pack quite a punch! They display interesting behaviour to protect their breeding territories in Scandinavia and Russia, such as dive-bombing and ramming into intruders. But their most characteristic and bizarre defence mechanism, involves a perfectly coordinated and targeted defecation or ‘poop’ on any intruding bird. This poop-ready behaviour can occasionally be witnessed in their wintering grounds, when guarding a scarce source of food, but more typically, they will just push other birds away by brute force and strength. So, although Fieldfares are definitely ‘Viking’ in spirit, their battle tactics are perhaps a little less violent, but certainly smellier and slimier, than that of the Norse invaders of centuries gone by.

Interestingly, these two species can form mixed flocks of Grey Piglets and Red Underwings, which is why people sometimes mistakenly lump them into one. And, in these mixed flocks, they are often accompanied by Starlings as well. This mixing is mostly characteristic of winter foraging behaviour, and this is no coincidence, as food sources are scare. So, it’s thought that by essentially ‘joining forces’, they increase their chances of finding food, in effect, sharing information about new feeding spots, and providing both safety in numbers and through collaborative vigilance against predators. Finches and buntings exhibit a similar flock-mixing behaviour in winter here on the reserve, and those species include Linnet, Twite, Brambling and even Snow Bunting. Check out Ron MacDonald’s excellent photos of these species below.

Both Redwings and Fieldfares have an appetite for berries and also larger fruits like apples and pears. During milder conditions, when the ground isn’t frozen, they will also hunt for worms, very much like Blackbirds and Song Thrushes. But berries and fruits are a vital food source when the ground is frozen. So, in the coming months, if you have a garden and feel generous, please leave out a few apples that have gone over slightly, because these thrushes will definitely thank you for it, especially during colder and harsher times, when food is scare.

That’s all for this week folks. Hope you enjoyed the read and found it interesting and a big thank you again to Ron MacDonald for supplying so many beautiful photos for this blog. Cheers! Danny.