Dunbar, East Lothian. Tuesday 11th March
I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon this year. By my reckoning, I’m getting out more than usual, taking regular days off mid- week specifically to go birding and making a point of making sure I get something at the weekend. But it seems harder work to gather ticks; I haven’t compared this year’s list to previous years for start of March, but the feeling I get is that everything is having to be earned. Even my January big day at Caerlaverock was an uphill battle thanks to being scopeless.
I’ve mentioned a couple of times that my tales of woe can be set firmly on Birdtrack’s doorstep, and that I tend to believe stuff I read on t'internet. Having checked recent sightings in Lothian, I noticed that Fulmar and Kittiwake had been seen in Dunbar. Sure, a wee bit early by my gut- instinct, but worth a try. I then made putative plans to combine the harbour with Tyninghame Bay and then Whitesands Beach via Dunbar Golf Club. Birdtrack had promised riches on all of these, and we all know Birdtrack is never, ever wrong.
My plans over the next few days were refined, and common sense prevailed. The Tyninghame Bay part of the plan was dropped, with a focus on the harbour and the John Muir coastal path to Whitesands. I figured I wouldn’t have enough time to make it to Barns Ness lighthouse, unfortunately, but the places I was going to would offer enough for a damned good day out.
Travel delays meant I reached Dunbar almost exactly on high tide. Strong off-shore winds meant that the causeway around the harbour was closed, so my hope for some photos of the shags on the rocks and wall were dashed. A walk round to my reliable Fulmar/ kittiwake spot got me only herring gulls. No sign of kittiwake (or fulmar for that matter) and no sign of nesting material or scat on the walls. Disappointing, yes. Surprising? No, not really, but more evidence that 2025 isn’t going to be an easy year.
I didn’t dally, as the harbour was offering little except frustration. I walked along to the East Beach, where the tide had still left an area of exposed beach, with lots of activity. BH gulls, wigeon, eider, redshank and oystercatcher all active either on the beach or on the water. Turnstone on the rocks were the best birds on offer, and by now the local drivers were pretty fed up with me blocking the road when they’re trying to drive past. Couldn’t quite bring myself to feel guilty about it, Dunbar really isn’t my favourite place on Earth.
I had a rough idea of how to get to the golf course, having ‘memorized’ google maps. For once, it didn’t let me down although looking back it’d probably be harder to miss it. I also had a rough idea of how to get to Whitesands, but this time the golf club were a step ahead. They have created a path to run adjacent to the playing surfaces, allowing folk to make use of the public right of way whilst minimising disruption to their precious pastime. The path was essentially on the shoreline, giving perfect access to all the interesting bits.
Not exactly altruism, given that it’s a public right of way and folk can’t be stopped from walking on it, but at least something where conflicting needs came to a mutual compromise. I was able to mostly avoid interaction with the ball thumpers, which suited me fine. I could though detect a certain level of resentment or hostility in the air as I wandered slowly along the path, and I revelled in it.
As for the birding, while the tide was high, it was by now starting, inexorably, to fall, meaning that the landscape changed constantly. Skylark sang from somewhere behind me, a reminder that golf course have the potential to be genuinely wild and nature friendly places, if only they were run by nature- friendly people. Initially, only eider and wigeon were visible on the water- with eider, for once, being outnumbered. As the water fell I could see carrion crow, turnstone and redshank on the exposed rocks. Herring gulls bobbed on the water further out. The air was filled with the noise of redshank calling, competing with the roar of the sea. The wind had subsided somewhat from what the harbour had been like, but it was by no means a still, calm day. But a good day for that, a birder’s day.
My outings as a birder has, I think, been dominated by mistiming things. Sure, I’ve lived and breathed the cliché of ‘should have been here yesterday’ but I’ve refined it to include ‘should’ve been here 5 minutes ago.’ My time as a coastal birder is further dominated by mis-timing tides. I always seem to arrive either just before or just on either high or low tide, where the common thought is that such sites are best an hour or so before or after. This time, though, I was able to use this to my advantage. I had a dropping tide, on a rocky shore, in a new place for me to explore. Time to seize the day, and just make the most of every minute that I could.
A fairly prolonged (for me) sea search couldn’t find gannet, albeit a couple of herring gull in formation gave me very brief hope. I gave up on seawatching, and opted to make the most of what I had on shore. Each new patch of exposed shoreline changed the dynamic, with herring gulls sitting further out, wigeon making do with dry land, and redshank, turnstone and corvids exploring the rocks. While the temperature was cool, the sunlight gave the black rocks and birds’ plumage an almost glittering sheen.
The path held numerous signs warning of the danger of being struck by an errant ball. Portentous, I thought they’d be as well marking it ‘abandon all hope’ as an attempt to put people off. I also thought that, from the position of the path, Dunbar Golf Club has some truly awful players if walkers are in that much danger. But to be fair, I’m not a golfer. The changing shoreline formed a wonderful comparison to the unchanging landscape of the golf course. A jarring comparison between the dynamism nature and the monolithic of a man- made landscape. In case you haven’t noticed, I really, really hate golf and loathe how for too many politicians and planners in Scotland it is the be-all and end-all.
In the distance I could see the Barns Ness lighthouse, with the Whitesands beach in the foreground. Movement on the beach gave the promise of bird life, and I sped up on the way to the end of the path. I set up my scope next to a large wooden sign to break- up my silhouette, and scanned the beach. Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance a few feet to my left, where I immediately got rock pipit. Year tick, and (believe it or not) one I always worry about in Scotland. Maybe because I was guaranteed them on holiday in Cornwall, which is now lost to me.
Back to the beach I got plenty of oystercatcher, plenty of gulls, and dashing about frantically, plenty of sanderling. Third time lucky for the year, I suppose, and having got the tick under the belt I was able to just enjoy watching them. The sunlight, as I mentioned, was perfect, and their white plumage shone like beacons, even against the brightness of the sands. A group of at least 20 of them took off together, and flew towards me, landing on the beach where the rock pipit still pootled about. The view to the beach had been perfect, but having them so close, at binocular distance, was an absolute joy. Eventually they flew back to the beach, as if to say that my treat was over. I realised that time was moving on, and I had a long walk back to get the train to Edinburgh.
I retraced my steps, and the difference a couple of hours makes was stark. The tide was by now receding far out, leaving dozens, if not hundreds, of rock pools exposed. I yearned to go back to childhood where you had all the time in the world to explore such things. I envied the children of Dunbar, and of other places, who have the opportunity to do such things. And I resent the way that the action and inaction of our own generation will rob them of it. The long journey home was spent in the glow of a damned excellent day out, and a re-inforcement of my love of being outdoors.
THOUGHTS
Mrs GS has pointed out that I’m really quite resistant to change. And she’s right, I can’t deny it. Sometimes, though, I have the urge to explore, to discover new things, to shake things up just a little. Maybe now that the mini- Sandpipers are older and I have the opportunity? Maybe it’s a ‘last chance to see’ feeling that makes me want to see everything, learn everything, enjoy everything?
Either way, I resent the way that nature has so much to offer, and our species’ short- sightedness means we treat it so badly. We lose out on so much. Scott of the Antarctic wrote to his wife famously, extolling her to make sure their son, Peter, became interested in natural history. To be fair, their son went on to found the Wildfowl & Wetland Trust. The only way we can save nature is by creating more Peter Scotts. The trip to Dunbar was ostensibly the ‘away’ part of the double- header, but it made me realise that being in nature anywhere is mine, and your, home. And we should be willing to do everything to protect it.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks
John
I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon this year. By my reckoning, I’m getting out more than usual, taking regular days off mid- week specifically to go birding and making a point of making sure I get something at the weekend. But it seems harder work to gather ticks; I haven’t compared this year’s list to previous years for start of March, but the feeling I get is that everything is having to be earned. Even my January big day at Caerlaverock was an uphill battle thanks to being scopeless.
I’ve mentioned a couple of times that my tales of woe can be set firmly on Birdtrack’s doorstep, and that I tend to believe stuff I read on t'internet. Having checked recent sightings in Lothian, I noticed that Fulmar and Kittiwake had been seen in Dunbar. Sure, a wee bit early by my gut- instinct, but worth a try. I then made putative plans to combine the harbour with Tyninghame Bay and then Whitesands Beach via Dunbar Golf Club. Birdtrack had promised riches on all of these, and we all know Birdtrack is never, ever wrong.
My plans over the next few days were refined, and common sense prevailed. The Tyninghame Bay part of the plan was dropped, with a focus on the harbour and the John Muir coastal path to Whitesands. I figured I wouldn’t have enough time to make it to Barns Ness lighthouse, unfortunately, but the places I was going to would offer enough for a damned good day out.
Travel delays meant I reached Dunbar almost exactly on high tide. Strong off-shore winds meant that the causeway around the harbour was closed, so my hope for some photos of the shags on the rocks and wall were dashed. A walk round to my reliable Fulmar/ kittiwake spot got me only herring gulls. No sign of kittiwake (or fulmar for that matter) and no sign of nesting material or scat on the walls. Disappointing, yes. Surprising? No, not really, but more evidence that 2025 isn’t going to be an easy year.
I didn’t dally, as the harbour was offering little except frustration. I walked along to the East Beach, where the tide had still left an area of exposed beach, with lots of activity. BH gulls, wigeon, eider, redshank and oystercatcher all active either on the beach or on the water. Turnstone on the rocks were the best birds on offer, and by now the local drivers were pretty fed up with me blocking the road when they’re trying to drive past. Couldn’t quite bring myself to feel guilty about it, Dunbar really isn’t my favourite place on Earth.
I had a rough idea of how to get to the golf course, having ‘memorized’ google maps. For once, it didn’t let me down although looking back it’d probably be harder to miss it. I also had a rough idea of how to get to Whitesands, but this time the golf club were a step ahead. They have created a path to run adjacent to the playing surfaces, allowing folk to make use of the public right of way whilst minimising disruption to their precious pastime. The path was essentially on the shoreline, giving perfect access to all the interesting bits.
Not exactly altruism, given that it’s a public right of way and folk can’t be stopped from walking on it, but at least something where conflicting needs came to a mutual compromise. I was able to mostly avoid interaction with the ball thumpers, which suited me fine. I could though detect a certain level of resentment or hostility in the air as I wandered slowly along the path, and I revelled in it.
As for the birding, while the tide was high, it was by now starting, inexorably, to fall, meaning that the landscape changed constantly. Skylark sang from somewhere behind me, a reminder that golf course have the potential to be genuinely wild and nature friendly places, if only they were run by nature- friendly people. Initially, only eider and wigeon were visible on the water- with eider, for once, being outnumbered. As the water fell I could see carrion crow, turnstone and redshank on the exposed rocks. Herring gulls bobbed on the water further out. The air was filled with the noise of redshank calling, competing with the roar of the sea. The wind had subsided somewhat from what the harbour had been like, but it was by no means a still, calm day. But a good day for that, a birder’s day.
My outings as a birder has, I think, been dominated by mistiming things. Sure, I’ve lived and breathed the cliché of ‘should have been here yesterday’ but I’ve refined it to include ‘should’ve been here 5 minutes ago.’ My time as a coastal birder is further dominated by mis-timing tides. I always seem to arrive either just before or just on either high or low tide, where the common thought is that such sites are best an hour or so before or after. This time, though, I was able to use this to my advantage. I had a dropping tide, on a rocky shore, in a new place for me to explore. Time to seize the day, and just make the most of every minute that I could.
A fairly prolonged (for me) sea search couldn’t find gannet, albeit a couple of herring gull in formation gave me very brief hope. I gave up on seawatching, and opted to make the most of what I had on shore. Each new patch of exposed shoreline changed the dynamic, with herring gulls sitting further out, wigeon making do with dry land, and redshank, turnstone and corvids exploring the rocks. While the temperature was cool, the sunlight gave the black rocks and birds’ plumage an almost glittering sheen.
The path held numerous signs warning of the danger of being struck by an errant ball. Portentous, I thought they’d be as well marking it ‘abandon all hope’ as an attempt to put people off. I also thought that, from the position of the path, Dunbar Golf Club has some truly awful players if walkers are in that much danger. But to be fair, I’m not a golfer. The changing shoreline formed a wonderful comparison to the unchanging landscape of the golf course. A jarring comparison between the dynamism nature and the monolithic of a man- made landscape. In case you haven’t noticed, I really, really hate golf and loathe how for too many politicians and planners in Scotland it is the be-all and end-all.
In the distance I could see the Barns Ness lighthouse, with the Whitesands beach in the foreground. Movement on the beach gave the promise of bird life, and I sped up on the way to the end of the path. I set up my scope next to a large wooden sign to break- up my silhouette, and scanned the beach. Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance a few feet to my left, where I immediately got rock pipit. Year tick, and (believe it or not) one I always worry about in Scotland. Maybe because I was guaranteed them on holiday in Cornwall, which is now lost to me.
Back to the beach I got plenty of oystercatcher, plenty of gulls, and dashing about frantically, plenty of sanderling. Third time lucky for the year, I suppose, and having got the tick under the belt I was able to just enjoy watching them. The sunlight, as I mentioned, was perfect, and their white plumage shone like beacons, even against the brightness of the sands. A group of at least 20 of them took off together, and flew towards me, landing on the beach where the rock pipit still pootled about. The view to the beach had been perfect, but having them so close, at binocular distance, was an absolute joy. Eventually they flew back to the beach, as if to say that my treat was over. I realised that time was moving on, and I had a long walk back to get the train to Edinburgh.
I retraced my steps, and the difference a couple of hours makes was stark. The tide was by now receding far out, leaving dozens, if not hundreds, of rock pools exposed. I yearned to go back to childhood where you had all the time in the world to explore such things. I envied the children of Dunbar, and of other places, who have the opportunity to do such things. And I resent the way that the action and inaction of our own generation will rob them of it. The long journey home was spent in the glow of a damned excellent day out, and a re-inforcement of my love of being outdoors.
THOUGHTS
Mrs GS has pointed out that I’m really quite resistant to change. And she’s right, I can’t deny it. Sometimes, though, I have the urge to explore, to discover new things, to shake things up just a little. Maybe now that the mini- Sandpipers are older and I have the opportunity? Maybe it’s a ‘last chance to see’ feeling that makes me want to see everything, learn everything, enjoy everything?
Either way, I resent the way that nature has so much to offer, and our species’ short- sightedness means we treat it so badly. We lose out on so much. Scott of the Antarctic wrote to his wife famously, extolling her to make sure their son, Peter, became interested in natural history. To be fair, their son went on to found the Wildfowl & Wetland Trust. The only way we can save nature is by creating more Peter Scotts. The trip to Dunbar was ostensibly the ‘away’ part of the double- header, but it made me realise that being in nature anywhere is mine, and your, home. And we should be willing to do everything to protect it.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks
John