I’m not brilliant at New Year’s resolutions. I was never even any good at giving stuff up for Lent. But this year, I’ve found myself sticking to my plan to make weekly records of garden and local birds. Sure, they’re mostly the usual suspects, but just occasionally, there’s a bit of birding brilliance. The week after my Rolling Stones trip to Aberlady was no different. Good numbers of Long- tailed tis, the usual house sparrows, blue and great tits, and- FINALLY- a coal tit. I knew it was a matter of time, but I was still awfully impatient to tick it. A greenfinch wheezed distantly, a song thrush sang , but still no siskin. Sometimes I think about sneaking down to My Mate Bill’s house, where birds count him in their own Garden Bill Watch.
The next weekend I had set plans for the Sunday, involving a public- transport inspired trip Eastward. Having a spare couple of hours on the Saturday, though, I made my way to Fin Me Oot, hoping for dipper on the Rotten Calder, but as always, would be happy with anything, or nothing. No foxes, although I did smell one. Call me mad (many folk do) but I love the smell of fox scent. I mean, not to the extent that I’ll roll about in it, but probably more than normal people.
I love history, so there’s never a ‘bad’ visit to Fin Me Oot, the place is far too special for that. There’s always something worthwhile, even if its just by being there and not actually doing anything other than walking through it. Having bird life, or other wild signs, just adds to it, giving it another dimension. This day, though, was one of those times where Fine Me Oot offered very little, but itself.
The cold, damp air, the muted light, and almost complete lack of nature noise created a sense of hushed melancholy. There was no sign of the foxes from my previous visit, and while I thought I distantly heard a great spotted woodpecker contact call in the distance, I couldn’t be certain whether it was some residual auditory memory or not. The lack of noise, of noticeable life, in my special place, was jarring, though. The Rotten Calder had plenty of scat on the rocks, but despite spending the best part of an hour there, there was nothing moving on the river.
The Fin Me Oot bench had fallen into disrepair, and is now no more than a couple of railway sleepers surrounded by nettles. The last memorial to a lost village, itself gradually becoming lost. I pondered whether to sit and rest my legs, but realised that I’d be in real danger of falling asleep. I’m all for being quirky and eccentric, and indeed they are qualities I really like about myself and other people, but I think having a kip on a derelict bench, on a late February afternoon, would be stretching the envelope of quirkiness to breaking point.
Avid readers will remember that transport from Lanarkshire to Lothian on a Sunday is a tad problematic. I had arranged with the eldest min- Sandpiper to give me a lift at 7am to the bus stop to catch an early coach to Edinburgh. When the hour of destiny arrived mini-Sand opened one eye, pointed vaguely in the direction of her car keys, and told me to “take Ruby.” My initial intention was to stick to the original plan and focus on Musselburgh for the full day. By the time I had reached West Lothian, though, I had the brainwave to make the most of the car and visit Torness, a place not easily reached by public transport at any time.
The sky was, as by now traditional, grey and heavy, interspersed with the occasional rain shower. I resigned myself to another day of perma- gloom. It took me a while to realise that Torness adds about 50% onto my Musselburgh distance, and that there was a good reason why the journey seemed never- ending. Somewhere in the darkest, dankest recesses of my mind I remembered that I had had sanderling and dunlin on the shoreline at Torness. There’s also always the hope of purple sandpiper on the rocks, although this one is deeply at the ‘hope’ end of the expectation scale.
At the visitor centre car park the wind was noticeably stronger than on the road, and I could hear the waves crashing against the shore. I opted to leave the scope in the car for the moment, with the option of coming back for it should the need arise. There was nothing noticeable on the shore, albeit the tide wasn’t ideal. I began my walk along the lower part of the walkway, the call of oystercatcher on the farthest rocks rising, just, above the waves. The walk was noticeable, mainly, for the sight of a group of anglers having ignored the warning sign and climbed over the fence at the water inlet/outlet duct. That’s the inlet pipe for the nuclear reactor… I left them to it, thinking that natural selection might come into play.
Anyway…..
A pied wagtail kept its distance on the path, and the rocks were utterly lacking in any birdlife. The sea itself had nothing, bar a pair of herring gull squabbling overhead. The crashing waves made the entire scene very atmospheric, and the absence of birds led my mind to wander and dream of life in a cabin on the shore, combing the beach each day for flotsam and jetsam to burn each evening. Then I realised I was fantasising about the John Carpenter film, The Fog, which ended badly for everyone near a beach.
I reversed course and returned via the upper path. A wee brown jobby erupted below me, where each summer skylark and mipit brighten the day. I couldn’t get a good enough look to see what it was. The fields that in the summer are vibrant with birdsong being eerily quiet in wintertime. Scanning the rocks again showed only oystercatcher, with no tell- tale movement of anything smaller. I trudged back to the car, disappointed, but not dispirited.
I arrived in Musselburgh about 40 minutes later. The weather was the same, the sky still grey and overcast, but it somehow managed to be colder. The main background noise, above the traffic, was the calling of various corvids. No discernible calls of finches or tits. I wasn’t expecting a wall of noise, but something, anything would have been good. The middle scrape was quiet- ish, with the rear pool hosting shelduck, redshank, lapwing and curlew. A close search of the curlew ruled out any faint hope of a whimbrel.
The walk to the sea wall got me no stock doves on the ‘usual’ place. Clearly, it was going to be one of ‘those’ days. The lack of stock dover may have been connected to the number of dogs running loose. No kestrel in the trees beside the path, and the sea itself was very quiet. Eider quite far out, gulls very far out, and no long- tailed duck, no scoters of any species.
The new scrapes had nothing in the adjacent fields (my last hope for stock dove) but did have teal, wigeon and gadwall on the water. Roosting oystercatcher as is the new norm, and the highlight of the day was watching a male pheasant to the left of the first hide. Quietly going about its business, I studied it in detail, not for the first time marvelling that each characteristic that it showed was there because it served an evolutionary purpose.
The entire area, though, was very bleak, and not for the first time I risked losing patience that it wasn’t developing according to MY preferred timeline. Much, much better in summer. The journey home in the car seemed much longer than by train, giving me plenty of time to ruminate on how there are no guarantees in birding.
The next week had more successful garden watching, and the beginnings of a dawn chorus. A song thrush has started singing with gusto along the path to the train station, which not only lifts your spirits, but offers hope that spring may well possibly arrive at some point. I sneaked a day off work on the Thursday, determined to make up for my last trip East. First, though, I made a small detour. I made the fatal mistake when working of checking social media for what other, luckier birders had seen. Most noticeably, a large flock of pochard had been seen at Drumpellier Country Park, a mere 20 minute drive from home. A ring- necked duck was also there, apparently. 2 days passed before I could get there; as my avid readers will know, I’m no twitcher, so the possibility of pochard was what excited me.
As I said, Drumpellier is only a short drive away from home, and I arrived by 8.30. The pochard and RN duck had been seen on Woodend Loch, the ‘wilder’ of the two lochs which the park boasts. I’ve had excellent times there watching GC grebe display, and I was hopeful of more of the same.
Once there the path from the road to the loch was deathly quiet, bar a single calling great tit. Closer to the water I could hear the unmistakeable noise of wigeon. Setting the scope up, I began by focussing on the larger of the groups of tufted duck. From bitter experience I knew that ring necked ducks look awfully like tufties, and would need careful scrutiny to pick out. I also knew I’d have to systematically search every area of the loch for the enigmatic (to me anyway) pochard.
One tufty looked promising in an all too brief glimpse. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a good enough look at either its beak or its neck to be sure. I was certain, though, that the bird was there, somewhere. I had no such feelings about the pochard of which there was no trace. Disappointing albeit not unexpected. Pochard arere- defining ‘bogey bird.’ More disappointing, though, was the lack of GC grebe. Eventually, I called it a day and drove home to then embark on the second part of my plans.
I had toyed with the idea of visiting Dunbar and Tyninghame Bay, and after an uneventful train journey to Edinburgh my plans came down to the ticket machine not giving me a ticket to Dunbar. By default, then, I ended up in Musselburgh, determined to make it success.
Being somewhat distracted, I accidentally bought a ticket for Musselburgh, rather than Wallyford, leaving me with a rather long walk than usual. I set up the scope after eventually reaching the Esk mouth. Good numbers of ducks on the Esk at the weir, though the building work ongoing at the opposite bank made me wonder how long we would be able to enjoy that.
I marvelled again at how touch East Coast folk seem to be, the wind from the East was starting to cut through me, while pedestrians walking by seemed utterly unbothered by it. The water level in the Esk was high, despite being about 2 hours shy of high tide. An initial scan of the sea got me distant gulls, and a long- tailed duck in a smallish raft of eider. Avid readers will recall that I love LT ducks, so even the distant views on offer gave me a real thrill.
My attention was then drawn to a flock of waders which erupted overhead, from the direction of the new scrapes. They headed briefly out to sea before wheeling back en masse, fluid motion in perfect harmony, no more than 20 feet above my head. A good look at their beaks confirmed that they were bar- tailed godwits, before the swooped back down into the new lagoon. A burst of oystercatcher and curlew calls confirmed that they had landed, and I hurried along the path to the first hide.
Scanning from left to right I got wigeon a plenty, smaller numbers of teal, shelduck shining like beacons in the murky light, and good numbers of curlew. A careful check ruled out ay whimbrel, sadly. The curlew were remarkably well camouflaged in the long grass. Scanning left got me oystercatchers roosting, probably much better viewed from the next hide along, with a small number of redshank at the fringes. No pheasant this time.
Scanning back to the right, though, got me the barwits, all of whom appeared to be sleeping. A sudden, distant noise jarred them all awake, their heads popping up en masse, all of them alert to potential danger. The moment passed and they settled back down. A moment of true bird ‘life.’
The rest of the walk along the seawall was uneventful, bar a single great- crested grebe. No scoter, no other grebes,
At Levenhall scrapes I changed my habits and started at the furthest right hide. Bird- wise, it was unsurprisingly quiet bar curlew at the far end. What it lacked in birds, though, it made up for in wild ‘life.’ A pair of roe deer strutted majestically along the far edge of the pool. About 30 feet apart, I was able to examine them closely. The front one being a mass of rippling muscle underneath a glossy coat. Its rear haunches screaming of the power they possess, the ability to spring into action like all true prey species. The red/ grey coat contrasted with a pale white patch on the neck, and I wondered what evolutionary benefit this gave the deer. A later check found that the jury is very much out on the subject.
The second deer, however, was much less powerful, but no less interesting for that. Much slenderer in torso, its rear legs almost spindly in comparison. They even differed facially, with the smaller one having much more delicate features. Both were on the alert, periodically looking up from their munching, to look around. At one point the larger one looked directly at me looking at it through the scope. I dared not move in case it got startled and bolted, thus breaking the spell. Eventually they moved out of sight into the trees, allowing me the chance to move on to the middle hide.
As often seems to be the case recently, the middle hide seems to have the most bird life in it, albeit still very quiet. Shelduck, redshank and yet more curlew. No small waders, no dunlin, no snipe. My vow o learn patience sems not to be working.
The sea wall was quiet, bar a group doing a bird survey. The member manning the scope called out species and numbers that were beyond my ability to see. Clearly, I ‘m better leaving the serious science to much better birders. The new scrapes got masses of woodpigeons in the fields, but no stock dove, no stonechat, no linnet and no twite. Patience, GreenSand, patience. The glowering skies finally opened, and I rushed to pack away my scope and binos, making my way back to the station slightly damper than expected, but still a fairly happy Green Sandpiper.
THOUGHTS
I’m still managing to keep to my 2025 resolutions and aims. Litte and often birding is working for me, I’m seeing the intrinsic value of each day out, regardless of what is seen or not seen. There’s no pint comparing, I feel, when any day birding is its own reward. Neither trip to Musselburgh gave me yr ticks, but did give me moments of magic to live long in my memory and to be passed on. The walk along the sea front can seem never-ending, especially if you’re carrying a scope. It does though offer ample time for thought. We can have as much experience as possible, we can hone our fieldcraft as much as we like, but we’re interlopers into wild ‘life’ where the wildlife allow us to share their space. And this makes every interaction, every day out, a privilege.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks.
John
The next weekend I had set plans for the Sunday, involving a public- transport inspired trip Eastward. Having a spare couple of hours on the Saturday, though, I made my way to Fin Me Oot, hoping for dipper on the Rotten Calder, but as always, would be happy with anything, or nothing. No foxes, although I did smell one. Call me mad (many folk do) but I love the smell of fox scent. I mean, not to the extent that I’ll roll about in it, but probably more than normal people.
I love history, so there’s never a ‘bad’ visit to Fin Me Oot, the place is far too special for that. There’s always something worthwhile, even if its just by being there and not actually doing anything other than walking through it. Having bird life, or other wild signs, just adds to it, giving it another dimension. This day, though, was one of those times where Fine Me Oot offered very little, but itself.
The cold, damp air, the muted light, and almost complete lack of nature noise created a sense of hushed melancholy. There was no sign of the foxes from my previous visit, and while I thought I distantly heard a great spotted woodpecker contact call in the distance, I couldn’t be certain whether it was some residual auditory memory or not. The lack of noise, of noticeable life, in my special place, was jarring, though. The Rotten Calder had plenty of scat on the rocks, but despite spending the best part of an hour there, there was nothing moving on the river.
The Fin Me Oot bench had fallen into disrepair, and is now no more than a couple of railway sleepers surrounded by nettles. The last memorial to a lost village, itself gradually becoming lost. I pondered whether to sit and rest my legs, but realised that I’d be in real danger of falling asleep. I’m all for being quirky and eccentric, and indeed they are qualities I really like about myself and other people, but I think having a kip on a derelict bench, on a late February afternoon, would be stretching the envelope of quirkiness to breaking point.
Avid readers will remember that transport from Lanarkshire to Lothian on a Sunday is a tad problematic. I had arranged with the eldest min- Sandpiper to give me a lift at 7am to the bus stop to catch an early coach to Edinburgh. When the hour of destiny arrived mini-Sand opened one eye, pointed vaguely in the direction of her car keys, and told me to “take Ruby.” My initial intention was to stick to the original plan and focus on Musselburgh for the full day. By the time I had reached West Lothian, though, I had the brainwave to make the most of the car and visit Torness, a place not easily reached by public transport at any time.
The sky was, as by now traditional, grey and heavy, interspersed with the occasional rain shower. I resigned myself to another day of perma- gloom. It took me a while to realise that Torness adds about 50% onto my Musselburgh distance, and that there was a good reason why the journey seemed never- ending. Somewhere in the darkest, dankest recesses of my mind I remembered that I had had sanderling and dunlin on the shoreline at Torness. There’s also always the hope of purple sandpiper on the rocks, although this one is deeply at the ‘hope’ end of the expectation scale.
At the visitor centre car park the wind was noticeably stronger than on the road, and I could hear the waves crashing against the shore. I opted to leave the scope in the car for the moment, with the option of coming back for it should the need arise. There was nothing noticeable on the shore, albeit the tide wasn’t ideal. I began my walk along the lower part of the walkway, the call of oystercatcher on the farthest rocks rising, just, above the waves. The walk was noticeable, mainly, for the sight of a group of anglers having ignored the warning sign and climbed over the fence at the water inlet/outlet duct. That’s the inlet pipe for the nuclear reactor… I left them to it, thinking that natural selection might come into play.
Anyway…..
A pied wagtail kept its distance on the path, and the rocks were utterly lacking in any birdlife. The sea itself had nothing, bar a pair of herring gull squabbling overhead. The crashing waves made the entire scene very atmospheric, and the absence of birds led my mind to wander and dream of life in a cabin on the shore, combing the beach each day for flotsam and jetsam to burn each evening. Then I realised I was fantasising about the John Carpenter film, The Fog, which ended badly for everyone near a beach.
I reversed course and returned via the upper path. A wee brown jobby erupted below me, where each summer skylark and mipit brighten the day. I couldn’t get a good enough look to see what it was. The fields that in the summer are vibrant with birdsong being eerily quiet in wintertime. Scanning the rocks again showed only oystercatcher, with no tell- tale movement of anything smaller. I trudged back to the car, disappointed, but not dispirited.
I arrived in Musselburgh about 40 minutes later. The weather was the same, the sky still grey and overcast, but it somehow managed to be colder. The main background noise, above the traffic, was the calling of various corvids. No discernible calls of finches or tits. I wasn’t expecting a wall of noise, but something, anything would have been good. The middle scrape was quiet- ish, with the rear pool hosting shelduck, redshank, lapwing and curlew. A close search of the curlew ruled out any faint hope of a whimbrel.
The walk to the sea wall got me no stock doves on the ‘usual’ place. Clearly, it was going to be one of ‘those’ days. The lack of stock dover may have been connected to the number of dogs running loose. No kestrel in the trees beside the path, and the sea itself was very quiet. Eider quite far out, gulls very far out, and no long- tailed duck, no scoters of any species.
The new scrapes had nothing in the adjacent fields (my last hope for stock dove) but did have teal, wigeon and gadwall on the water. Roosting oystercatcher as is the new norm, and the highlight of the day was watching a male pheasant to the left of the first hide. Quietly going about its business, I studied it in detail, not for the first time marvelling that each characteristic that it showed was there because it served an evolutionary purpose.
The entire area, though, was very bleak, and not for the first time I risked losing patience that it wasn’t developing according to MY preferred timeline. Much, much better in summer. The journey home in the car seemed much longer than by train, giving me plenty of time to ruminate on how there are no guarantees in birding.
The next week had more successful garden watching, and the beginnings of a dawn chorus. A song thrush has started singing with gusto along the path to the train station, which not only lifts your spirits, but offers hope that spring may well possibly arrive at some point. I sneaked a day off work on the Thursday, determined to make up for my last trip East. First, though, I made a small detour. I made the fatal mistake when working of checking social media for what other, luckier birders had seen. Most noticeably, a large flock of pochard had been seen at Drumpellier Country Park, a mere 20 minute drive from home. A ring- necked duck was also there, apparently. 2 days passed before I could get there; as my avid readers will know, I’m no twitcher, so the possibility of pochard was what excited me.
As I said, Drumpellier is only a short drive away from home, and I arrived by 8.30. The pochard and RN duck had been seen on Woodend Loch, the ‘wilder’ of the two lochs which the park boasts. I’ve had excellent times there watching GC grebe display, and I was hopeful of more of the same.
Once there the path from the road to the loch was deathly quiet, bar a single calling great tit. Closer to the water I could hear the unmistakeable noise of wigeon. Setting the scope up, I began by focussing on the larger of the groups of tufted duck. From bitter experience I knew that ring necked ducks look awfully like tufties, and would need careful scrutiny to pick out. I also knew I’d have to systematically search every area of the loch for the enigmatic (to me anyway) pochard.
One tufty looked promising in an all too brief glimpse. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a good enough look at either its beak or its neck to be sure. I was certain, though, that the bird was there, somewhere. I had no such feelings about the pochard of which there was no trace. Disappointing albeit not unexpected. Pochard arere- defining ‘bogey bird.’ More disappointing, though, was the lack of GC grebe. Eventually, I called it a day and drove home to then embark on the second part of my plans.
I had toyed with the idea of visiting Dunbar and Tyninghame Bay, and after an uneventful train journey to Edinburgh my plans came down to the ticket machine not giving me a ticket to Dunbar. By default, then, I ended up in Musselburgh, determined to make it success.
Being somewhat distracted, I accidentally bought a ticket for Musselburgh, rather than Wallyford, leaving me with a rather long walk than usual. I set up the scope after eventually reaching the Esk mouth. Good numbers of ducks on the Esk at the weir, though the building work ongoing at the opposite bank made me wonder how long we would be able to enjoy that.
I marvelled again at how touch East Coast folk seem to be, the wind from the East was starting to cut through me, while pedestrians walking by seemed utterly unbothered by it. The water level in the Esk was high, despite being about 2 hours shy of high tide. An initial scan of the sea got me distant gulls, and a long- tailed duck in a smallish raft of eider. Avid readers will recall that I love LT ducks, so even the distant views on offer gave me a real thrill.
My attention was then drawn to a flock of waders which erupted overhead, from the direction of the new scrapes. They headed briefly out to sea before wheeling back en masse, fluid motion in perfect harmony, no more than 20 feet above my head. A good look at their beaks confirmed that they were bar- tailed godwits, before the swooped back down into the new lagoon. A burst of oystercatcher and curlew calls confirmed that they had landed, and I hurried along the path to the first hide.
Scanning from left to right I got wigeon a plenty, smaller numbers of teal, shelduck shining like beacons in the murky light, and good numbers of curlew. A careful check ruled out ay whimbrel, sadly. The curlew were remarkably well camouflaged in the long grass. Scanning left got me oystercatchers roosting, probably much better viewed from the next hide along, with a small number of redshank at the fringes. No pheasant this time.
Scanning back to the right, though, got me the barwits, all of whom appeared to be sleeping. A sudden, distant noise jarred them all awake, their heads popping up en masse, all of them alert to potential danger. The moment passed and they settled back down. A moment of true bird ‘life.’
The rest of the walk along the seawall was uneventful, bar a single great- crested grebe. No scoter, no other grebes,
At Levenhall scrapes I changed my habits and started at the furthest right hide. Bird- wise, it was unsurprisingly quiet bar curlew at the far end. What it lacked in birds, though, it made up for in wild ‘life.’ A pair of roe deer strutted majestically along the far edge of the pool. About 30 feet apart, I was able to examine them closely. The front one being a mass of rippling muscle underneath a glossy coat. Its rear haunches screaming of the power they possess, the ability to spring into action like all true prey species. The red/ grey coat contrasted with a pale white patch on the neck, and I wondered what evolutionary benefit this gave the deer. A later check found that the jury is very much out on the subject.
The second deer, however, was much less powerful, but no less interesting for that. Much slenderer in torso, its rear legs almost spindly in comparison. They even differed facially, with the smaller one having much more delicate features. Both were on the alert, periodically looking up from their munching, to look around. At one point the larger one looked directly at me looking at it through the scope. I dared not move in case it got startled and bolted, thus breaking the spell. Eventually they moved out of sight into the trees, allowing me the chance to move on to the middle hide.
As often seems to be the case recently, the middle hide seems to have the most bird life in it, albeit still very quiet. Shelduck, redshank and yet more curlew. No small waders, no dunlin, no snipe. My vow o learn patience sems not to be working.
The sea wall was quiet, bar a group doing a bird survey. The member manning the scope called out species and numbers that were beyond my ability to see. Clearly, I ‘m better leaving the serious science to much better birders. The new scrapes got masses of woodpigeons in the fields, but no stock dove, no stonechat, no linnet and no twite. Patience, GreenSand, patience. The glowering skies finally opened, and I rushed to pack away my scope and binos, making my way back to the station slightly damper than expected, but still a fairly happy Green Sandpiper.
THOUGHTS
I’m still managing to keep to my 2025 resolutions and aims. Litte and often birding is working for me, I’m seeing the intrinsic value of each day out, regardless of what is seen or not seen. There’s no pint comparing, I feel, when any day birding is its own reward. Neither trip to Musselburgh gave me yr ticks, but did give me moments of magic to live long in my memory and to be passed on. The walk along the sea front can seem never-ending, especially if you’re carrying a scope. It does though offer ample time for thought. We can have as much experience as possible, we can hone our fieldcraft as much as we like, but we’re interlopers into wild ‘life’ where the wildlife allow us to share their space. And this makes every interaction, every day out, a privilege.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks.
John
