Time. There’s always so little of it, but there’s also been so much of it. Work- life balance is a major thing for employers- I suspect they’re terrified of being sued by burnt- out employees, rather than genuinely caring for their burnt- out employees- and we’re encouraged to be mindful of it. We’re also encouraged to take part in ‘mindfulness’, either by friends and colleagues, or even by Springwatch. Its excellent advice, it keeps our equilibrium, and allows us to deal with what life chucks at us.
So, equilibrium. The balance between life, and birding. Work deals with itself, but late autumn found conflicting demands on my non- work time. Unavoidable stuff reduced a lot of my birding to the occasional trip to Cathkin Marsh, to ‘bird listening’ on the way to the train station, and to garden birding. Even garden birding though was uneventful. The doldrums had hit late in the birding year, for once, and a pall hung over the autumn.
Having taken a day off for my birthday (turning 51 didn’t help matters, incidentally) I borrowed my daughter’s car (christened Ruby, due to it (her?) being painted very brightly red) and headed off to Ardmore Point for some birding in the mist. And misty rain. A bit of “let’s see whats on offer” with a large dollop of “ach, it’s been ages since I went there” was not the best constructed birdwatching plan ever devised, admittedly. The highlight of the wander around the peninsula was a mystery black and white bird emerging from the mist about 150 yards offshore. A piss- poor digiscoped photo was somehow deleted before I managed to get home and check Collins. Google lens had produced a number of increasingly ridiculous suggestions previously. Not so much Carlsberg birding, as 3 day old can of Skol birding.
I’d blame my next adventure on My Mate Bill, but by now, you’ll know how stubborn I actually am. And that oftentimes this stubbornness not only defies logic, but beats it to within an inch of its life. Thus I found myself back in Longniddry, on the hunt for divers, grebes, and a chip van. The original plan had been to travel by train, and walk round the shore to Aberlady, from there walking to Gullane Point to search for migrating auks. Instead, I borrowed Ruby again, with the plan changing to visiting Torness (ach, it had been ages since I’d went there, and I wanted to see what was on offer) The trip peaked with a good view of stonechat at the start of the sea walk, but went downhill once the wind really picked up. Not much on the water, eider, naturally, but also exceptional views of a cormorant close in, in good light. I may have found another of those under-stated hidden things of bird beauty.
A passing birder told me there were purple sand among the oycs and turnstone on the rocks, but I didn’t see any. Admittedly, the wind making my eyes stream meant I struggled to see anything. This day was going to be hard work, I could feel it in my bones.
To add to the comedy value of the day I could feel the beginnings of a head cold at the back of my throat, and I braced myself for the upcoming 5 days of misery. The trip to Longniddry seemed somehow to take an eternity, and the 5 days of head cold misery had decided to give me the express version. The chip van, thankfully, was there, and I treated myself to a hot chocolate, resisting the temptation to shout “salt and VINEGAR, not SAUCE” to the customers. The hot drink gave me a temporary energy boost and a walk along the path found a birder hunkered down in the lee of a sand dune, sheltering as best he could from the wind. He kindly put me onto a RT Diver offshore, naked eye distance, looked good in binos, and by that point I hadn’t even bothered taking the scope out of the car.
Having ticked the diver, I decided to move on to the third and final part of my day. Aberlady Bay, and Gullane Point. Ah, Aberlady. My kryptonite. The place where “ach, I’ve not been there for a while” tends to have a bloody good reason. Anyway, got a parking space at the car park, it helps that Ruby is a Toyota Aygo, and is very small. I noted the wind was blowing some clouds into the bay, and I opted to let the weather front pass, figuring that a walk at dusk may well find the SE Owl that My Mate Bill had gotten a few weeks previously. I woke up 2 and a bit hours later, in near darkness, just in time to drive home. 1 year tick, having more or less given up on getting RT Diver, and great views of it at that, but having spent longer napping than actually birding, it was a pretty unfulfilling day.
And the head cold hit hard that night.
That seemed like a microcosm of much of 2024. Missed opportunities, opportunities not taken, and when they were taken, still missing out, somehow. My Mate Bill always maintains that you make your own luck by putting in the hours, so maybe that’s what I need to do next year. Or, just take him with me everywhere.
The following few days had good birds in the garden and local area, with redwing in the trees, and a pair of collared dove looking very at home in the tree in my garden. First time in years I’ve had them, so am optimistic they’ll linger.
My 2024 list has had some notable gaps during the year. Unbelievably December rolled round without Red Kite, and without tree sparrow. The latter was absent from my Caerlaverock new year trip, and showed the danger of relying on one trip to one place to see a specific bird. Red Kite is a genuine concern, as the Sma’ Glen was a complete bust this year, and looking back, hasn’t been great for a few years now.
At least Tree Sparrow and Red Kite could be rectified. My problematic summer saw me missing out on both seabirds and woodland migrants. Autumn migration saw quite a few birds being just slightly out of reach due to luck and timing. The old Darts quiz Bullseye was famous for telling its losing contestants- ‘here’s what you would’ve won’ and seeing other people’s successes was a stark reminder of my own disappointments.
With this in mind, I was determined that I’d have one last big trip before the year end. I borrowed Ruby again, due to my own car (which lacks a name) being unavailable. All those times I was Dad- taxi were clearly an investment. That, and Daughter-the-Elder knows I’ll give her a full tank of petrol back. I decided to rectify some of the gaps in my list by heading to Dumfries and Galloway, specifically, Mersehead RSPB. I knew that Mersehead offered near- guarantees of pintail and tree sparrow, and a better-than-decent chance of Red Kite. A wander through the woods would ideally provide views of jay and nuthatch. Ideally….
I’m trying to remember a time before we felt the need to name storms. Back in the old days when it was really blowy, really rainy, or just “nah, I’ll have a day at home today” weather.
I had been keeping one eye on the weather forecast, and of course on yon internet thing to check that Mersehead was actually open. Being reduced to driving my daughter’s car meant that I abandoned plans to visit Ken Dee Marshes, as the approach road can be pretty “off- road” at times, and the risks I’d take with my own car are vastly different to those I’d take with someone else’s. Mersehead or bust, maybe with a bit of Southerness thrown in, since I was passing it anyway. My trips to D&G are fortunately sporadic enough that I blank out just how bad the drive down is, so I was unburdened by any negative thoughts. The forecast was for sunny weather, and a “moderate breeze.” Sandwiches packed, the plan was to leave at 6 am, so I would see the dawn rise at the reserve. Also meant I wouldn’t have to stare into the sun on the motorway on the way down, as quite often I’ve been reliant on The Force to guide me if the sun is particularly strong. Plan in place- a 6.30 start, for an 8.30- ish dawn.
The plan went awry almost immediately. Through mostly my own fault I left Uddingston at 8.30, meaning I was going to be chasing daylight once I got to D&G. Worse, the road south mean that I was staring into the sun for about an hour. Lovely clear skies also involved a lot of guesswork as to where on the road I actually was. Matters were not helped by me not knowing how to work Ruby’s sat- nav, and Google Maps being unreliable (Google Maps seems to contain an element of victim blaming, as if it’s my own fault I don’t know how to get somewhere, so why should they care)
I arrived at Mersehead at 11:15, so almost 3 hours later than planned- which is bad, even by my standards. It was immediately obvious that although Storm Darragh had been chased, (IYKYK) strong winds still lingered, and would be a significant feature of my day. With rapidly- numbing fingers I set up my scope, gathered my stuff together and headed off into the visitor centre. I immediately got tree sparrow on the feeders, so one tick sorted. House sparrow, greenfinch and chaffinches all showed really well. The area in front of the viewing window was really flooded, which was a portent of the rest of the reserve. The volunteer on duty explained that one of the paths, and therefore a hide, was closed due to flooding and a fallen tree.
A quick aside- Mersehead seems to have the friendliest volunteers of all the RSPB visitor centres I’ve been to. All credit to them.
The walk to the Bruaich Hide- the non- shut one- had the wind cutting right through me, despite layers of clothes and my ‘winter jaikit’ Barnacle geese called from all around, and every field I saw seemed to have flooding of some description. The path leading to the hide had barnies, oycs and starlings being very mobile, very flighty. Once in the hide it seemed the wind, somehow, got even stronger. The hide by no means seems old or in disrepair, but the structure creaked with some of the stronger gusts. Pretty disconcerting, but definitely one of those “I’m here now” moments.
The flooded area appeared empty, at first glance, and I was hit with a sense of almost panic. Dipping on pintail in a reserve that’s famed for the wintering population would be embarrassing. If memory serves, I had the same concerns last year, so at least I’m consistent. A steady search, though, found plenty of bird- life sheltering from the excesses of the wind. Wigeon, a few teal, and about 30 or so pintail all congregated in the fringes, with the long grass sticking up the floodwater offering some protection, I suppose. A pair of shoveler doing not very much at all, plus a mini- murmuration of starling offered a teasing glimpse of what might happen at dusk, but overall this was the sum total of what was on offer. Second year tick, and bogey- bird fears exorcised. The pintail and wigeon looked magnificent through the scope- another one of those moments when the sunlight was just weak/ strong enough to show the bird without washing it out. A single rook wandered the edges of the flood, and I was struck again just how much I love these birds. Sure, you can tick one raiding a bin outside a shop, or tick one on a feeder at Lochwinnoch but there was something about seeing it ‘wild.’ Rooks and jackdaws were the first corvids I really became aware of as a child, I used to see them when walking to school with my Grandad, and I think that’s why they’ve always had some special place in my subconscious.
A spot of lunch allowed me to scan the hills outside the reserve for any sign of red kite. A silhouette suggested likely- looking wing shape, but I couldn’t get a view of the tail to be sure. At least, not sure enough to tick it. A wander in the wind along the main route confirmed that the path through the woodland was closed, a walk to the beach confirmed the tide was very, very far out, and the wind was bitter. The walk back to the visitor centre was pleasant, once you ignore the wind. Back in the visitor centre I got chatting to a pair of lovely ‘older’ lady birders, who were combining visitor centre birding with having a lunch of the epic proportions seldom seen outside of an Enid Blyton book. Beautiful views of a starling on the feeder, plus the ubiquitous finches and tits. A Redwing lurked in the adjacent berry tree, to go with the fieldfare I had heard calling earlier.
By now, I felt that my time there was done. I had an instinct that the reserve wasn’t going to offer anything new for the day, and it made me think again of the comparison with WWT Caerlaverock- not least since one of the ladies had asked me about it. Is it disloyal to prefer one reserve over the other? A brief chat with the warden on my way out, and I was satisfied that the trip had met my expectations. 2 year ticks, and just the right amount of human interaction.
Although I felt it was time to leave, I didn’t feel it was time to go home. Southerness was ruled out by the wind, and I began wondering whether Ken- Dee Marshes was an option after all. I resent the very idea of spending longer travelling than birding, even if the travel time is unavoidably long. I checked the internet to see how close Ken Dee Marshes was, and realised it was do- able before dusk. I placed my trust in Google maps, reassuring Ruby that I’d turn back if the road became too bad. “Too bad” being an obviously subjective assessment.
I found myself at Ken- Dee at about 3pm, as light was starting to fail. A very weather- worn notice told me the hides were closed, giving me limited options on the reserve. I’ve had willow tit most times I’ve been there, including on a feeder at a hide, so knew if I was to get one this time, it’d be the hard way. I’ve had red kite in the field approaching the good viewing area, and decided this would be a good place to start. Utterly devoid of life, for some reason I turned my back to look at the hills on the shooting estate side of the boundary. Immediately, got a pair of kites floating serenely with the sunset as a backdrop. Utterly beautiful I the failing light, and utterly fulfilling. It made me realise that its not good enough to just tick a red kite, I need to actually watch it. It also made me realise that the Sma Glen wasn’t the answer, given the increasing problems getting kites there. Maybe connected to the adjacent shooting estate? I vowed to, somehow, make more of an effort to spend time at Ken Dee next year.
A walk to the end of the path was woodland heaven. To be surrounded by woodland, with a burn in full spate. The oncoming dusk gave it an ethereal, other- worldly feel. A trudge back to the car, a hellish journey back to Lanarkshire, but with the glow of a damned good day out.
Having booked a flexi day from work I set out Eastward to Lothian. Realistically, my last proper day birding before Christmas, and the resetting of the birding year in January. I headed to Musselburgh, as if to get one last visit of the year, with no expectations of ticks or any particular species at all. Got to Levenhall links at 1pm, which is late even by my standards, to find them very quiet. Plenty of lapwing, which are an admitted joy, and the tantalising hope of a peregrine left unfulfilled. A smattering of individual redshank, a curlew having a bath (definitely a birding “moment”!) and single shelduck and blackwit was pretty much it for the scrapes.
The path got me very showy bullfinch, which is again another birding moment. I’ll never, ever take bullfinch for granted. The sea front was fairly bird- free, and I set the scope up at the benches. The water was quiet, bar the occasional travelling oyc or gull. The highlight, though, was a confiding carrion crow perched on the sea wall. It kept its eye on me, and a view through the binos showed just how thick its plumage was, the black sheen showing in the winter sunlight. Thick enough to resemble dog fur, especially when it puffed out its feathers to trap warm air. A real delight to see.
A wander to the ‘new’ scrapes got not much at all, bar triggering memories of summer and skylark song. I retraced my steps back to Levenhall, cutting through the woods away from the sea wall, just to get some ‘woodland’ time in. A chat with a birder, a very quick visit to the scrapes again (still no peregrine) and the voyage homeward.
THOUGHTS
I’m now well into that time of year when planning for the next year is taking shape. The vague ‘plans’ or ‘hopes’ are now starting to take a more concrete shape. The adventures I had with Ruby reminded me both of the damned good days out I’d had this year, but also some of the slog. The 3 year ticks were a relief, and the trip to Musselburgh seemed like the perfect end.
2024’s summary will be posted soon (definitely before December 31st) and I’ll include all my usual highlights, lowlights, moans, hopes, and expectations.
Stay healthy, stay safe, stay brilliant.
John (and Ruby)
So, equilibrium. The balance between life, and birding. Work deals with itself, but late autumn found conflicting demands on my non- work time. Unavoidable stuff reduced a lot of my birding to the occasional trip to Cathkin Marsh, to ‘bird listening’ on the way to the train station, and to garden birding. Even garden birding though was uneventful. The doldrums had hit late in the birding year, for once, and a pall hung over the autumn.
Having taken a day off for my birthday (turning 51 didn’t help matters, incidentally) I borrowed my daughter’s car (christened Ruby, due to it (her?) being painted very brightly red) and headed off to Ardmore Point for some birding in the mist. And misty rain. A bit of “let’s see whats on offer” with a large dollop of “ach, it’s been ages since I went there” was not the best constructed birdwatching plan ever devised, admittedly. The highlight of the wander around the peninsula was a mystery black and white bird emerging from the mist about 150 yards offshore. A piss- poor digiscoped photo was somehow deleted before I managed to get home and check Collins. Google lens had produced a number of increasingly ridiculous suggestions previously. Not so much Carlsberg birding, as 3 day old can of Skol birding.
I’d blame my next adventure on My Mate Bill, but by now, you’ll know how stubborn I actually am. And that oftentimes this stubbornness not only defies logic, but beats it to within an inch of its life. Thus I found myself back in Longniddry, on the hunt for divers, grebes, and a chip van. The original plan had been to travel by train, and walk round the shore to Aberlady, from there walking to Gullane Point to search for migrating auks. Instead, I borrowed Ruby again, with the plan changing to visiting Torness (ach, it had been ages since I’d went there, and I wanted to see what was on offer) The trip peaked with a good view of stonechat at the start of the sea walk, but went downhill once the wind really picked up. Not much on the water, eider, naturally, but also exceptional views of a cormorant close in, in good light. I may have found another of those under-stated hidden things of bird beauty.
A passing birder told me there were purple sand among the oycs and turnstone on the rocks, but I didn’t see any. Admittedly, the wind making my eyes stream meant I struggled to see anything. This day was going to be hard work, I could feel it in my bones.
To add to the comedy value of the day I could feel the beginnings of a head cold at the back of my throat, and I braced myself for the upcoming 5 days of misery. The trip to Longniddry seemed somehow to take an eternity, and the 5 days of head cold misery had decided to give me the express version. The chip van, thankfully, was there, and I treated myself to a hot chocolate, resisting the temptation to shout “salt and VINEGAR, not SAUCE” to the customers. The hot drink gave me a temporary energy boost and a walk along the path found a birder hunkered down in the lee of a sand dune, sheltering as best he could from the wind. He kindly put me onto a RT Diver offshore, naked eye distance, looked good in binos, and by that point I hadn’t even bothered taking the scope out of the car.
Having ticked the diver, I decided to move on to the third and final part of my day. Aberlady Bay, and Gullane Point. Ah, Aberlady. My kryptonite. The place where “ach, I’ve not been there for a while” tends to have a bloody good reason. Anyway, got a parking space at the car park, it helps that Ruby is a Toyota Aygo, and is very small. I noted the wind was blowing some clouds into the bay, and I opted to let the weather front pass, figuring that a walk at dusk may well find the SE Owl that My Mate Bill had gotten a few weeks previously. I woke up 2 and a bit hours later, in near darkness, just in time to drive home. 1 year tick, having more or less given up on getting RT Diver, and great views of it at that, but having spent longer napping than actually birding, it was a pretty unfulfilling day.
And the head cold hit hard that night.
That seemed like a microcosm of much of 2024. Missed opportunities, opportunities not taken, and when they were taken, still missing out, somehow. My Mate Bill always maintains that you make your own luck by putting in the hours, so maybe that’s what I need to do next year. Or, just take him with me everywhere.
The following few days had good birds in the garden and local area, with redwing in the trees, and a pair of collared dove looking very at home in the tree in my garden. First time in years I’ve had them, so am optimistic they’ll linger.
My 2024 list has had some notable gaps during the year. Unbelievably December rolled round without Red Kite, and without tree sparrow. The latter was absent from my Caerlaverock new year trip, and showed the danger of relying on one trip to one place to see a specific bird. Red Kite is a genuine concern, as the Sma’ Glen was a complete bust this year, and looking back, hasn’t been great for a few years now.
At least Tree Sparrow and Red Kite could be rectified. My problematic summer saw me missing out on both seabirds and woodland migrants. Autumn migration saw quite a few birds being just slightly out of reach due to luck and timing. The old Darts quiz Bullseye was famous for telling its losing contestants- ‘here’s what you would’ve won’ and seeing other people’s successes was a stark reminder of my own disappointments.
With this in mind, I was determined that I’d have one last big trip before the year end. I borrowed Ruby again, due to my own car (which lacks a name) being unavailable. All those times I was Dad- taxi were clearly an investment. That, and Daughter-the-Elder knows I’ll give her a full tank of petrol back. I decided to rectify some of the gaps in my list by heading to Dumfries and Galloway, specifically, Mersehead RSPB. I knew that Mersehead offered near- guarantees of pintail and tree sparrow, and a better-than-decent chance of Red Kite. A wander through the woods would ideally provide views of jay and nuthatch. Ideally….
I’m trying to remember a time before we felt the need to name storms. Back in the old days when it was really blowy, really rainy, or just “nah, I’ll have a day at home today” weather.
I had been keeping one eye on the weather forecast, and of course on yon internet thing to check that Mersehead was actually open. Being reduced to driving my daughter’s car meant that I abandoned plans to visit Ken Dee Marshes, as the approach road can be pretty “off- road” at times, and the risks I’d take with my own car are vastly different to those I’d take with someone else’s. Mersehead or bust, maybe with a bit of Southerness thrown in, since I was passing it anyway. My trips to D&G are fortunately sporadic enough that I blank out just how bad the drive down is, so I was unburdened by any negative thoughts. The forecast was for sunny weather, and a “moderate breeze.” Sandwiches packed, the plan was to leave at 6 am, so I would see the dawn rise at the reserve. Also meant I wouldn’t have to stare into the sun on the motorway on the way down, as quite often I’ve been reliant on The Force to guide me if the sun is particularly strong. Plan in place- a 6.30 start, for an 8.30- ish dawn.
The plan went awry almost immediately. Through mostly my own fault I left Uddingston at 8.30, meaning I was going to be chasing daylight once I got to D&G. Worse, the road south mean that I was staring into the sun for about an hour. Lovely clear skies also involved a lot of guesswork as to where on the road I actually was. Matters were not helped by me not knowing how to work Ruby’s sat- nav, and Google Maps being unreliable (Google Maps seems to contain an element of victim blaming, as if it’s my own fault I don’t know how to get somewhere, so why should they care)
I arrived at Mersehead at 11:15, so almost 3 hours later than planned- which is bad, even by my standards. It was immediately obvious that although Storm Darragh had been chased, (IYKYK) strong winds still lingered, and would be a significant feature of my day. With rapidly- numbing fingers I set up my scope, gathered my stuff together and headed off into the visitor centre. I immediately got tree sparrow on the feeders, so one tick sorted. House sparrow, greenfinch and chaffinches all showed really well. The area in front of the viewing window was really flooded, which was a portent of the rest of the reserve. The volunteer on duty explained that one of the paths, and therefore a hide, was closed due to flooding and a fallen tree.
A quick aside- Mersehead seems to have the friendliest volunteers of all the RSPB visitor centres I’ve been to. All credit to them.
The walk to the Bruaich Hide- the non- shut one- had the wind cutting right through me, despite layers of clothes and my ‘winter jaikit’ Barnacle geese called from all around, and every field I saw seemed to have flooding of some description. The path leading to the hide had barnies, oycs and starlings being very mobile, very flighty. Once in the hide it seemed the wind, somehow, got even stronger. The hide by no means seems old or in disrepair, but the structure creaked with some of the stronger gusts. Pretty disconcerting, but definitely one of those “I’m here now” moments.
The flooded area appeared empty, at first glance, and I was hit with a sense of almost panic. Dipping on pintail in a reserve that’s famed for the wintering population would be embarrassing. If memory serves, I had the same concerns last year, so at least I’m consistent. A steady search, though, found plenty of bird- life sheltering from the excesses of the wind. Wigeon, a few teal, and about 30 or so pintail all congregated in the fringes, with the long grass sticking up the floodwater offering some protection, I suppose. A pair of shoveler doing not very much at all, plus a mini- murmuration of starling offered a teasing glimpse of what might happen at dusk, but overall this was the sum total of what was on offer. Second year tick, and bogey- bird fears exorcised. The pintail and wigeon looked magnificent through the scope- another one of those moments when the sunlight was just weak/ strong enough to show the bird without washing it out. A single rook wandered the edges of the flood, and I was struck again just how much I love these birds. Sure, you can tick one raiding a bin outside a shop, or tick one on a feeder at Lochwinnoch but there was something about seeing it ‘wild.’ Rooks and jackdaws were the first corvids I really became aware of as a child, I used to see them when walking to school with my Grandad, and I think that’s why they’ve always had some special place in my subconscious.
A spot of lunch allowed me to scan the hills outside the reserve for any sign of red kite. A silhouette suggested likely- looking wing shape, but I couldn’t get a view of the tail to be sure. At least, not sure enough to tick it. A wander in the wind along the main route confirmed that the path through the woodland was closed, a walk to the beach confirmed the tide was very, very far out, and the wind was bitter. The walk back to the visitor centre was pleasant, once you ignore the wind. Back in the visitor centre I got chatting to a pair of lovely ‘older’ lady birders, who were combining visitor centre birding with having a lunch of the epic proportions seldom seen outside of an Enid Blyton book. Beautiful views of a starling on the feeder, plus the ubiquitous finches and tits. A Redwing lurked in the adjacent berry tree, to go with the fieldfare I had heard calling earlier.
By now, I felt that my time there was done. I had an instinct that the reserve wasn’t going to offer anything new for the day, and it made me think again of the comparison with WWT Caerlaverock- not least since one of the ladies had asked me about it. Is it disloyal to prefer one reserve over the other? A brief chat with the warden on my way out, and I was satisfied that the trip had met my expectations. 2 year ticks, and just the right amount of human interaction.
Although I felt it was time to leave, I didn’t feel it was time to go home. Southerness was ruled out by the wind, and I began wondering whether Ken- Dee Marshes was an option after all. I resent the very idea of spending longer travelling than birding, even if the travel time is unavoidably long. I checked the internet to see how close Ken Dee Marshes was, and realised it was do- able before dusk. I placed my trust in Google maps, reassuring Ruby that I’d turn back if the road became too bad. “Too bad” being an obviously subjective assessment.
I found myself at Ken- Dee at about 3pm, as light was starting to fail. A very weather- worn notice told me the hides were closed, giving me limited options on the reserve. I’ve had willow tit most times I’ve been there, including on a feeder at a hide, so knew if I was to get one this time, it’d be the hard way. I’ve had red kite in the field approaching the good viewing area, and decided this would be a good place to start. Utterly devoid of life, for some reason I turned my back to look at the hills on the shooting estate side of the boundary. Immediately, got a pair of kites floating serenely with the sunset as a backdrop. Utterly beautiful I the failing light, and utterly fulfilling. It made me realise that its not good enough to just tick a red kite, I need to actually watch it. It also made me realise that the Sma Glen wasn’t the answer, given the increasing problems getting kites there. Maybe connected to the adjacent shooting estate? I vowed to, somehow, make more of an effort to spend time at Ken Dee next year.
A walk to the end of the path was woodland heaven. To be surrounded by woodland, with a burn in full spate. The oncoming dusk gave it an ethereal, other- worldly feel. A trudge back to the car, a hellish journey back to Lanarkshire, but with the glow of a damned good day out.
Having booked a flexi day from work I set out Eastward to Lothian. Realistically, my last proper day birding before Christmas, and the resetting of the birding year in January. I headed to Musselburgh, as if to get one last visit of the year, with no expectations of ticks or any particular species at all. Got to Levenhall links at 1pm, which is late even by my standards, to find them very quiet. Plenty of lapwing, which are an admitted joy, and the tantalising hope of a peregrine left unfulfilled. A smattering of individual redshank, a curlew having a bath (definitely a birding “moment”!) and single shelduck and blackwit was pretty much it for the scrapes.
The path got me very showy bullfinch, which is again another birding moment. I’ll never, ever take bullfinch for granted. The sea front was fairly bird- free, and I set the scope up at the benches. The water was quiet, bar the occasional travelling oyc or gull. The highlight, though, was a confiding carrion crow perched on the sea wall. It kept its eye on me, and a view through the binos showed just how thick its plumage was, the black sheen showing in the winter sunlight. Thick enough to resemble dog fur, especially when it puffed out its feathers to trap warm air. A real delight to see.
A wander to the ‘new’ scrapes got not much at all, bar triggering memories of summer and skylark song. I retraced my steps back to Levenhall, cutting through the woods away from the sea wall, just to get some ‘woodland’ time in. A chat with a birder, a very quick visit to the scrapes again (still no peregrine) and the voyage homeward.
THOUGHTS
I’m now well into that time of year when planning for the next year is taking shape. The vague ‘plans’ or ‘hopes’ are now starting to take a more concrete shape. The adventures I had with Ruby reminded me both of the damned good days out I’d had this year, but also some of the slog. The 3 year ticks were a relief, and the trip to Musselburgh seemed like the perfect end.
2024’s summary will be posted soon (definitely before December 31st) and I’ll include all my usual highlights, lowlights, moans, hopes, and expectations.
Stay healthy, stay safe, stay brilliant.
John (and Ruby)
