An Arctic Wanderer - 28th February 2026

Ross's Gulls come from the high Arctic, breeding in the northernmost parts of North America and northeastern Siberia and despite their diminutive size must be tough as even in winter they usually venture no further south than to the edge of the pack ice along the northern parts of the Bering Sea and Sea of Othotsk.

They are a bird that for me encapsulate the romance of far away strange lands that I am unlikely ever to see. It was first discovered by the British explorer James Clark Ross and named in his honour and its breeding grounds were a mystery until 1905 when the wonderfully named Sergei Aleksandrovich Buturin, serving at the time as a judge no less, found it breeding at Podhodsk in northeastern Yakutia. A classic discovery upholding the grand tradition of amateur ornithology.

Very occasionally an individual will stray further south to temperate areas such as northwest Europe and today I went to see the 107th to be recorded in Britain and that has been delighting birders with its presence since being found on the 22nd of February at Newlyn Harbour in Cornwall.,

Prior to today I have seen two Ross's Gulls. The first was at Peterhead, Aberdeenshire in February 2005 and the second also in February but in 2018 at the RSPB's Radipole Lake in Dorset see here . Both were adults whereas this bird at Newlyn was an immature in its second year of life and, never have seen one in this plumage before, provided me with an added incentive to go to Cornwall.

Ever since it was first found I checked each day and as confirmation of its presence continued I went on a mental roller coaster ride of indecision as to whether to go and see it or not. Cornwall is a long way from my home in Oxfordshire and there was no escaping the daunting prospect of a four and half hour drive to Newlyn which I would have to accomplish solo as none of my twitching or birding pals showed any enthusiasm to join me. 

With news of the gull's presence at Newlyn on Friday I finally made my mind up to go to Cornwall,  planning to leave in the early hours (3am) of Saturday to arrive at Newlyn around 7am, just as it would begin to get light.

Unusually I managed to get a few hours sleep before waking an hour early at 2am. Lying in bed self doubt again assailed me. A voice in my head told me I had already seen two so why subject myself to the torture of yet another long tiring night drive to Cornwall and an outcome that was by no means certain.

No one would care if I changed my mind.It was of little consequence.

I lay there for ten long minutes, rolling the twitching dice and then impulsively fell out of bed and commenced readying myself to depart for Cornwall. So tired and discomfited, I failed to register I was leaving the house well before my planned departure time of 3am.The drive was as ever attritional.Night drives are no longer straightforward as many roads and motorways are now closed at night to allow for repairs but being a Saturday the roads were less busy with commuting traffic and lorries and apart from the inevitable road closures, temporary traffic lights and an unfathomable diversion off the M5 motorway near Minehead, all was relatively incident free. 

I stuck at it for mile after weary mile. Devon and Cornwall seem to get larger every time I follow the dreaded M5/A30 combination west but at last I arrived in Penzance to be confronted by yet another road closure and subsequent diversion through a maze of confusing one way back streets in order to get to Newlyn that lies just to the west.

My earlier than planned  start from home meant I arrived in Newlyn at 6.15am but already it was getting light. My early arrival had one benefit in that it meant I was able to find a free parking space (not easy) amongst the narrow car congested lanes of the town and even better very close to the harbour.

Four and half hours driving had taken its predictable toll and left me dazed and befuddled, so I granted myself thirty minutes of not hanging onto a steering wheel to sit quietly in the car with eyes closed, endeavouring to unite body and soul for what was to come. 

Semi revived and with bins around my neck and camera over my shoulder I departed the car and ventured into the early morning in an awakening Newlyn and headed up the North Pier of Newlyn Harbour

The North Pier looking towards the town

I was not the first and joined a few other birders standing half way along the pier. It was immediately obvious from their demeanour that there was no sign of the gull and we stood in the early morning sunshine morosely hoping the gull would put in an appearance sooner rather than later and rather too often checked the gulls on the surrounding warehouse roofs in the hope of a minor miracle of finding the Ross's Gull perched there amongst its larger cousins. Of course it wasn't. 

An hour later and the adrenaline brought on by hope and expectation had drained from my body and I felt flat in mind and body as tiredness and reality began to assert itself. It was almost unbearable as I contemplated the distinct possibility of dipping and the prospect of a four and a half hour drive of misery back home.

To add to my discomfort a chilly northeast wind had sprung up to blow directly into my face as I leant on a cold metal rail and stared across the sunlit harbour at Newlyn's colourful fishing boats moored alongside a short pier opposite and its houses ranged in a confusion of cramped terracing along snaking narrow lanes on the steep hillside behind the harbour.

It all looked so lovely and appealing in the bright sunshine but sadly that was not my nor any of my fellow birders reason for being here. Another fruitless hour passed and my spirits sunk ever lower. Other birders were continually arriving but the gull was nowhere to be seen. The only vestige of hope we clung to was that it had not been seen in the harbour yesterday until around 10am and currently it was only 8.30am  although it seemed much later. I resolved to hang on until then. I had already been awake for six and a half hours.

I chatted to Kyle and Kevin, two birding colleagues from Oxfordshire who had also travelled west as gradually most other birders gave it up and quietly departed, planning to go and look either for a very rare and elusive Pacific Diver on the sea off nearby Mousehole  or go to Hayle where a Ring billed and Bonaparte's Gull, a drake Garganey and a Curlew Sandpiper had been seen yesterday.

My vigil continued. The last thing I wanted to do was commence driving again to Mousehole or Hayle but even I reached a nadir and left Kyle and Kev at a little after 9am and walked back along the pier glad to get some circulation going in my legs and be out of the wind. Outside one of the small sheds that lined one side of the pier and that serve as business premises or places to store various bits and pieces for the smaller fishing and pleasure boats in the harbour, a door lay ajar and I admired a  huge gathering of Turnstones, lingering by the door in anticipation of being fed, which they regularly are apparently.They were ludicrously tame and you literally had to wade through them, so reluctant were they to move out of the way, spilling over the concrete like an animated  brown tide albeit with bright ornage legs.

I used to look askance at Newlyn but have grown to be rather fond of its slighty wacky and tacky combination of industry and tourism with the undoubted prime focus being fishing but complemented by the presence of small shops and businesses crammed into random corners, fronted by narrow paths or none at all, on the main thoroughfare that snakes through the town, while houses rise above the harbour on a steep hillside accessed by convoluted lanes. Pretty it is not but it has a unique charm combining its mainly industrial fishing base (it is the largest fishing port in England)  with a growing accent on leisure and tourism.

I went to check the adjacent Tolcarne Beach where the gull had been seen on previous occasions in the week but now on a sunny Saturday morning it was populated not by gulls but people and the inevitable dogs.

I checked every gull on every roof one more time and again there was no sign.

At a total loss, I had finally run out of options. I walked to a pleasant roadside cafe and treated myself to a coffee and sat on a chair in the small garden, sheltered from the wind and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. It was so tempting to sit there and close my eyes but resisting I resolved to give it ten minutes and then make the effort to drive a short way further west to Mousehole to try and find the Pacific Diver while waiting for any news about the gull if indeed there was to be some.

I walked to my car and instinctively checked my phone, just in case and there was a message on one of the WhatsApp Birding groups I am a member of  ..................

'Ross's back in harbour'.

The message was timed at 1003

I was literally a hundred metres from the North Pier and power walked along the pier to join half a dozen birders photographing the gull, which was flying up and down the channel between the North Pier and a parallel shorter pier opposite.

Tiny, not much larger than a Little Gull I was struck by how delicate and angular it looked with its long pointed wings, wedge shaped tail and dove like head and bill. 

It was flying a circuit over  the wide channel of seawater between the two parallel harbour piers where the trawlers were moored, dropping to the surface to pick unidentified items from the sea or on at least one occasion plunging its head under the water to seize a small fish. It flew to the landward end of the channel and then flew back towards the harbour entrance, before crossing over the North Pier we were stood on and carried on out into the broad sweep of Mount's Bay that lies between Newlyn and Penzance, heading across the turquoise blue waters to settle distantly on the sea by some rocks.

That was it. A three hour wait but I had seen and photographed the Ross's Gull and felt infinitely better for the experience. Any tiredness and low spirits were banished the instant I saw the gull but of course I wanted more and felt I deserved more having driven so far and taken such a gamble. There was no quitting now.

I just knew the gull would return. I was certain as this is what it had been doing for the days prior to my visit. Others left, happy to have seen it, the relatively prolonged time the gull was present enough to satisfy. I remained but walked around to the opposite shorter pier as the light would be better for photography.

Standing there I looked through my bins across Mount's Bay and could see a crowd of birders in the distance looking at the gulls loafing on the roof of an Aldi Superstore by the coast road.It was obvious where the Ross's Gull was now and it was tempting to drive to the store but I held my nerve .Just!

I stood my ground and as I hoped the gull eventually flew back into the harbour and repeated its behaviour of earlier. It looked so small and inconsequential against the background of the pier, the clutter of boats and buildings and yes, its admirers.

After passing back and fore a couple of times the gull headed for the harbour entrance and flew around there. I waited, hoping it would come back but it remained at the entrance or flew out into the bay only then to return, heading into the wind to pass just off the end of the northern pier but no further.

I could see quite a crowd building up at the end of the North Pier and realised they must be getting fabulous views of the gull passing so close to them. It was obvious that I  needed to get over there and fast.

A ten minute powerwalk down the pier I was on, all tiredness and fatigue now long forgotten in the rush of anxiety and excitement that enveloped me, then back up the North Pier had me joining a throng of around thirty birders  enjoying point blank views of the gull as it flew past them, out across the bay and then back into the wind, dipping and swerving, soaring up and dropping low over the sea in a distinctly tern like flight that was both elegant and accomplished.

I would expect nothing less of this Arctic traveller.

The gull continued its to'ing and fro'ing past the end of the pier but I knew that the time had come when I had seen enough. I had watched it for pretty much an hour and was not going to get any better images or get any better views. It was all done and dusted and at just after noon I left the pier to drive the short distance to Hayle to check out the gulls and waders that roost and feed on the extensive sandbanks that are exposed there at low tide.

It was a success in that I saw an adult Ring billed Gull, a North American species that used to be fairly easy to see in Britain but is now a distinct rarity. A Curlew Sandpiper was also a nice surprise amongst a flock of a hundred or so Dunlin.

Frogging and Togging 26th February 2026

It was blustery this morning, not particularly cold but the strength of the wind blowing down the narrow valley was enough to  make it feel colder than the recorded temperature suggested. Needless to say the sky was the colour of woodash and the sunshine of yesterday but a memory.

I find it barely credible that a year has passed since last I came here to these three inconsequential shallow  pools, lying well within the boundary of the city but here I am again admiring the frogs that have lain  dormant in holes, recesses or whatever dark hiding places  they have chosen throughout the winter and from which are now emerging to greet another Spring and begin the timeless ritual of courting and spawning. All will be achieved in a matter of a few days before they disperse once more to their hideaways, leaving the favoured pools to nurture their progeny and provide for another generation of frogs.

Today as I looked down from the boardwalk, the pools the frogs so faithfully return to each year looked devoid of any amphibious life but contrary ripples on the water's surface told otherwise, betraying frog activity below the surface.

I stood silent and motionless which is what you do if you wish to see the frogs, which with a multitude of predators take easy alarm, especially at a looming presence such as mine. I must look a  giant to them as they poke their blunt noses and gold rimmed goggle eyes above the water to survey their immediate surroundings.

Slowly and cautiously, around a dozen heads emerged above the water, the attached bodies lying prone below the cold water, supported by blades of riparian plantlife . Gaining confidence a few males begin jostling each other and moving across the water's surface with jerky movements before adopting their customary static pose as if waiting, which I suppose they are, for a female to  appear and hopefully to clamber onto her back and when the time comes fertilise the eggs as they pour in a jellied stream from her bloated body.

This morning a couple of males were already clinging onto their chosen female's backs (a behaviour called amplexus) but no spawn was yet evident, while other male frogs were still instinctively trying to clamber on each others backs, heedless and blundering in their all consuming drive to procreate. 

The above two images show a male and female frog in amplexus.Note the difference in colour
between the male (grey) and the female (brown)

A couple of frogs decided they wanted to move from one pool to another and in a series of giant hops proceeded across the intervening dead grass and moss. Each hop was followed by a long period of immobility as if the frog was seized by doubt about exposing itself away from its natural environment and was assessing whether it was safe to chance another hop and risk drawing attention to itself. 

A few gave brief voice,  a subdued and desultory purring, not unattractive in its gentle rhythmic pulsing the sound reminiscent of a distant running motor.Today it had to compete with the sound of the gusting wind and soon ceased as if the frogs were deterred by the weather and lack of competition.

My visit today was probably premature.There is surely more to come so I will return in a few days when hopefully the numbers will have increased. Last year the pools dried up in the long summer drought and I assume the tadpoles perished so maybe the numbers of adults will not be so plentiful this year. I can but hope for the best and will know soon enough.

I spent ninety minutes standing alone by the pools, the busy city if not visible certainly audible above and around this shallow valley that harbours one of the most endangered fenland habitats in Britain and contains a host of of rare native plants lovingly protected and tended by a band of dedicated volunteers 

Frogs, are themselves becoming endangered so are just as much a valued part of this sanctuary. Their annual return to the valley a welcome confirmation of the approaching Spring and another year of regeneration.

Away Day for A Great Grey 21st February 2026

I have seen a fair number of Great Grey Shrikes over the years in various parts of Britain and when I first moved to Oxfordshire I took my then very young daughter to Farmoor Reservoir and one of the first birds we saw was a Great Grey Shrike which unbeknown to us was spending the winter in the fields and bushes around the western end of the reservoir. Its presence prompted a small newly created reserve between the reservoir and the River Thames to be named Shrike Meadow.

It has been a while since I saw my last Great Grey Shrike - four years to be exact and that was on Shetland in the autumn. Always a scarce winter visitor to Britain varying between 10-60 records per year they have latterly become very much more scarce for reasons unknown but possibly to do with global warming. They breed in northern Europe, (north of 50 degrees latitude) and Asia and migrate south in winter to more temperate regions.

This winter there have been very few records in Britain but one was found frequenting fields and hedgerows near the village of Fillingham in Lincolnshire on the 10th of January and has established a winter territory there and is being seen daily.

Its territory is based around a large square field of rough grass bordered by thick thorn hedges, this field appearing to be set aside from all the surrounding fields which are cultivated.

With nothing on the local birding radar on Saturday and no rain forecast for Fillingham, on a whim I decided to re-acquant myself with this fierce and charismatic predator of the hedgerows.

It is a long drive to Fillingham, longer than I anticipated but after two and a  half hours I found myself amongst the flat wide fields of Lincolnshire and passing through the small village of Fillingham came to rest on the corner of a country road.

Not quite sure where to go from here but knowing I had to walk, luckily another birder drew up behind me and knew where to go. It was easy as  adjacent to the road was a locked gate blocking access to the farm fields but a gap by the gate allowed access to a footpath leading out alongside a hedgerow with the shrike's favoured rough grass field on the other side.

We took the path and then went through a gap in the hedge to find ourselves standing at the edge of the rough field which was surrounded on all four sides by tall thorny hedgerows that looked as if they had been deliberately left untended and joined two other birders already looking at the shrike perched in the hedgerow on the far side of the field.

There was little other birdlife around apart from some Grey Partridge, calling in the field but frustratingly remaining hidden in the rank grass and invisible while Skylarks sang overhead.

The shrike was an obvious but distant grey and white presence in an otherwise dark and leafless, unkempt and tangled hedgerow.

We watched it preening and occasionally dropping to the ground but always flying back up to what appeared to be its favourite perch. A bit too distant for decent photos we waited for it to move closer but it was in no hurry and remained where it was. The other three birders left and I was on my own standing on a wet muddy track by the hedge with the wind blowing fiercely onto what was quite an elevated and exposed position, as I had a panoramic view across land that sloped away in both directions into a murky distance.

The hedgeline where I stood initially to observe the shrike

I was joined by another local birder and at his suggestion we approached the shrike more closely which showed little alarm and remained clinging steadfastly to its perch. 

Satisfied we withdrew and resumed our position standing under the hedge to wait and see what the shrike might do. A few minutes later the shrike suddenly flew along the hedge, a flickering of black and white wings, mobbed by a Reed Bunting and away to the far end of the field to perch there briefly. 

The shrike then flew back over our heads to perch at the top of the hedge we were standing under.

This gave us an unexpected and welcome opportunity to take some more images as it swayed at the very top of a twiggy branch, buffeted by the wind.

This shrike has become well known for hovering like a kestrel, low over the field and pouncing on voles but it only did this once and briefly while I was there and unfortunately I missed the opportunity to record it as I was the wrong side of the hedge. I waited for a couple of hours but the shrike spent most of the subsequent time perched in the hedge and in the end I grew tired of waiting.and decided it was probably time to make the long drive home.