A female Parrot Crossbill at Blackdown NT West Sussex 02 February 2012

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

A female Parrot Crossbill had been found a few days earlier at Blackdown NT on the borders of Surrey and Sussex and was attracting much attention as there were some who said it was one and others who were coming up with all manner of identification reasons as to why it was something else such as an Eastern Common Crossbill, a Scottish Parrot Crossbill or even an aberrant Common Crossbill.

Well, only one person really, was disputing the identification and like Voldemort he should and shall remain nameless. Expelliamus! I had already tried to see the bird on the previous Tuesday but failed, missing it annoyingly by thirty minutes or so. Consultation of the sighting times demonstrated to me that it would be best to get there at first light and wait, as it appeared to be only seen once a day in the early to mid morning when it came to drink at a particular pool on a particular ridge.

And so it was that lo! as the following Thursday dawned, Badger, myself and Paul traversed Basingstoke in the rush hour. Blackdown is not the easiest of places to get to or even find but my previous abortive trip had at least yielded one positive result. I now knew the way! A beautiful sunrise heralded the fact that it was seriously minus something or other outside and with a wind blowing directly from Siberia it was going to be minus something or other cubed when we had to leave the snugness of the Audi.

Our arrival in the Car Park was achieved without incident and we proceeded to don every possible item of clothing we possessed in preparation for our epic stand against the forces of nature and Siberia in particular. It was alright whilst we kept moving but eventually at the designated spot it was time to stand still and just wait. Blackdown is the highest point in West Sussex and it was minus five degrees celsius when we got out of the car. Even more with the wind chill factor. The wind blew and my fingers started to feel very, very cold. My face had no feeling whatsoever and that small part of my nose that was exposed to the elements rapidly froze along with the drips coming from it. It was however a glorious day, sunny but unbelievably cold. I warmed myself up by trying with my feet to smash the ice on the pool in order that the Crossbills would not be deterred from coming down to drink

Then it was just an attritional wait occasionally enlivened by various jolly, middle class ladies in lurid clothing walking or running with their dogs. Some were in lycra but shouldn’t have been. The ladies that is. We stood and scoped a few Common Crossbills that arrived to perch in the trees around the pool. Loathe to move too much in case a slight gap in my clothing might let in the arctic air I moved slowly like a giant gherkin, green, knobbly and fat around the middle from all the clothing. Warily the Common Crossbills eventually descended to drink but they did not include the desired Parrot Crossbill. The male Common Crossbills however were really lovely in their resplendent scarlet plumage and seemed impervious to the cold as they sang and displayed to the females. If nothing else it was a glorious opportunity to get close up and personal with a species which normally is only seen fleetingly. I gladly took the opportunity. A birder arrived and for some unknown reason announced to no one in particular that the Parrot Crossbill would arrive at 9.15. 

He was quite definite about this but steadfastly ignored by one and all. Then after a wait some more Common Crossbills arrived, perching on a lone conifer. The birder again announced that the Parrot Crossbill would arrive at 9.15. His pariah status was confirmed as he was ignored yet again. The minutes passed as we looked at Common Crossbills messing about in the silver birches around the pool.

Then to the left, at 9.15, as some more Common Crossbills arrived I located a single female Crossbill on its own, isolated against the blue sky in one of the birches. It was clearly visible, unobstructed by any twigs and just sat there. There was something about it. Having now spent some considerable time watching Common Crossbills it looked, well, different but only very subtly. It looked to be stockier and marginally larger with a thick neck and large head. For what seemed ages it just sat head on to me but eventually it turned its head sideways. The beak was definitely larger with the familiar bulging lower mandible. Surely this was it? The beak was so much bigger than usual but still I was not absolutely sure. This was after all a first ever for me. Eventually I said to Paul who was also, unknown to me, looking at it. “That’s it isn’t it? The bird on its own on the left in that birch.” Independently he thought so too. So we announced the fact to one and all which we came to regret as no sooner had we said this than we then had to endure an inordinate amount of time trying to direct one particular birder on to it. It moved around so no sooner had we directed him to it than the process had to start all over again. Let’s face facts now - it had been a very early start, it was bloody cold, I had the remains of a really nasty cold virus which had kept me awake coughing most of the previous night and I was not in the best of moods. Comments such as “Can you get me on to it? Is it in that bare tree?” did not help matters - all the trees were bare apart from the conifers we were not looking at. It was mid winter after all. I did my best but it was hopeless. After more directions during which the bird flew off I was assailed with “Which bare tree was it in? Was it the one over there?” Gritted teeth. ‘There are several bare trees, in fact there are three groups of bare trees, can you tell me which do you mean?’ “The one on the right, no sorry the one on the left”.‘Yes it was in there’ “Whereabouts? Was it halfway up? Was it the bird fourteenth from the right on the edge of that three inch twig slightly above the bent branch in that bare tree second from the left?” ‘If you want it to be, then - Yes!!!!’ “Thanks, then I think I saw it”. If you don’t know what to look for then why are you here? This nonsense went on and eventually I tuned out and just ignored the requests.

The Parrot Crossbill spent its time with the other Common Crossbills just fiddling about in the birches and flying around with the flock of twenty or so Common Crossbills. Occasionally it would descend to drink and then would be back up into the trees. It posed a real identification test each time it had to be relocated as it was not as distinctive as one would think unless seen in profile side on when the relatively enormous lower mandible was quite obvious. There were other subtle differences from its commoner cousins such as it’s slightly, to me anyway, heavier build, larger, squarer head and thick neck. It just looked stockier than its fellows.

After about twenty minutes the flock moved a hundred metres or so to some other birches. I went over and after some time finally located it perched quite close and it remained here giving the best views that I was to achieve. It was very close in the scope and the head and neck especially seemed very grey. I watched it in comparative peace. The rest of the birders duly came over to where we were standing and normal service was resumed with more inane questions. A man with a camera sidled up to me “Can you see it”. ‘Yes’ “Where?” ‘There by the trunk of that silver birch’. “I can’t get onto it”. ‘Just follow the trunk up until you get to the bit in the sun and its sitting there’. “No I can’t see it.” ‘It’s there right in front of you. You can see it with your naked eyes’. “No. Which tree is it?” Fortunately I was then dissuaded from grievous bodily harm by two dogs attempting the same on each other uncomfortably close to my legs. The owners needless to say were unapologetic announcing that it was nothing - they do this all the time. Really? The man with the camera then asked me to look at his picture of the Parrot Crossbill. He was uncertain if he had photographed the right bird!

We must have watched the Parrot Crossbill for an hour or so and then slowly the whole flock departed in pairs or threes presumably to feed elsewhere. So another successful twitch came to its end. While the bird was present we forgot about the cold but once the bird had flown it was another story. Back in the car at 11 am. The temperature? Minus 3 degrees Celsius!

Common Crossbill

Sharp Tailed and Bristol Fashion 11th November 2011

Dawn rose in Witney as Clackers boarded the Audi to be transported to the exotic West where the beautiful go to die. A Sharp-tailed Sandpiper had been found on Blagdon Lake in Somerset the day before and having been alerted by Badger that same afternoon I arranged with Keith Clack (Clackers) that evening to go and see it the following day.

Clackers was in morose mood as we headed for the M4 as the night had been clear and he was convinced the sandpiper would have flown away. He also filled me with a sense of doom as in inimitable Clacker speak he regaled me about how he had never had much success twitching at Blagdon Lake or nearby Chew Valley Lake for that matter. My head spun from lack of sleep and all that crap stuff that life sometimes brings in the wee hours of the morning. With Clackers on board there is no need for a radio to keep one awake so I listened to his stories which sufficed to keep me conscious and the car on the road. We persisted heading west into a beautiful sunrise and approaching Bristol Clacker’s pager predictably announced there was no sign of the sandpiper. Why was I not surprised? We were negotiating a roundabout at the time and I was all for doing 360 degrees and heading for home but for some reason decided to drive on, figuring there may be a chance it had just moved to another part of the large lake that is Blagdon and someone would cover themselves in glory by re-finding it.

The pager, by way of regular updates, made it clear that it wasn’t to be and after taking a detour through some pleasant golden leafed lanes due to our original route being blocked by road-works, we arrived not at Blagdon Lake as planned but at nearby Chew Valley Lake and Herriot’s Bridge to be precise. 

'Let’s stop here Clackers and ask this birder if anything is about'. 

We drew to a stop and asked the question of our Wurzel friend. 

'Bain’t be nuffin’ here my lovely' he responded. 

'OK. Thanks'. 

'Clackers old boy  Badger was here only a few weeks ago and he had a Spotted Sandpiper on this side of the bridge although it is hard to see and he had to jump over the fence to see it'. 

Clacker’s fence jumping days are long gone so I took a speculative look over said fence and to my total surprise the Spotted Sandpiper hove into view. Well at least we had now seen something worthwhile so I suppose we could claim the journey was slightly salvaged. Clackers called over the few other birders present and they watched it too. It then flew out of sight. 

'Well that was good.' 

Not really, we had come to see a Sharp-tailed Sandpiper and it had gone. Nothing could adequately substitute for that. 

'Come on Clackers let’s look at the main lake on the other side of the road'. 

Clackers went lightweight (chortle at in joke) with just his bins. I took my scope and bins and walked over the road. There were an awful lot of ducks on the lake but I was more interested in a distant muddy margin beyond the reeds which had some waders on it, although they seemed to be mainly Lapwing.

The usual impossible hope in such situations came into my head. What if the Sharp-tailed Sandpiper is here? I have had these longings and impossible hopes many times before in similar situations and they have never been realised and it looked like I was not to be disappointed this time either. Clackers located a distant, large, grey wader in his bins. 

'What’s that one?' 

'It’s a Black-tailed Godwit - there’s another one to the right of it'.  

“OK.” 

The Lapwings took off and I could see a flock of small waders in amongst the whirling black and white mass which quickly returned from whence they had risen. Scope on them. 

Dunlin! 

Oh well.

I scanned the now settled Lapwing flock again. 

'Hang on what is that grey bird with a very long beak and sewing machine like probing action? It’s too small for a godwit - it’s a Long-billed Dowitcher! Actually there are two of them. Undoubtedly the Blagdon birds'. 

Normally this would be cause for some satisfaction but our main prize and the reason for our journey was missing. Nothing but nothing could make up for that. What if we saw these and then by some miracle we saw our main target? Wouldn’t that be nice?

I scanned the shoreline again. When does hope exceed all expectation? In situations like these, sadly. I despondently counted the Lapwing with the Dunlin pottering around amongst them. Funny, that one looks a lot smaller. It’s smaller because it’s a stint. I looked at it again and it was grey with no pale braces on the mantle/scapulars and its movements were unlike a Little Stint being slower and almost sluggish. The bill looked slightly thicker and blunt ended although I was attempting this delicate identification process at extreme range with full zoom. Another birder asked me what it was and I said it might be a Semi-palmated Sandpiper but there was no way I could be absolutely certain from the range we were looking at and I was calling it as a stint or small peep of some kind and leaving it at that. 

A local then said there had been a Little Stint around and this was probably the same bird. Because of the distance and the alleged presence of a Little Stint there ensued only a subsequent mild discussion about the identity of the small wader we were now looking at and I left it as unproven due to the extreme range we were viewing it from. Both myself and Clackers were tempted to err in favour of Semi-palmated Sandpiper but regrettably in such situations one just has to accept that it is not always possible to make a positive identification**

I looked again at the assembled waders, hope all but gone, feeding on the shoreline where there were some old tree stumps in the shallow water and almost missed a small brown wader, standing motionless, sheltering in front of one of the stumps. 

Hmmm. 

Zooming the eyepiece once again to maximum revealed it to have a rusty orange cap, a large, flared white supercilium, a dark patch on the ear coverts, rich brown upperparts with scaly scapulars, an unstreaked orange-buff breast band  contrasting with white underparts and yellow-green legs. 

My insides screamed YEEEEESSSSSSS. I remained outwardly calm.  

'Have a look at this Clackers'. 

He duly looked through my scope. '

Is that what I think it is?' 

'Yes Clackers I think it is'. 

'I will go and get my scope. Keep an eye on it there’s a good fellow'. 

'No problem'. 

Clackers returned with his scope. Clackers grilled the bird too. I announced to our fellow birders that we have re-found the Sharp-tailed Sandpiper. Discreetly I do not ask what the f**k have you all been doing before we arrived. We are congratulated and thanked by the small number of other birders present. We assist some of them to locate it on the mud. Some of them ask to look through my scope. 

'Please go ahead”. 

'I can only see some Dunlin'. 

'It’s the brown one with the rusty orange cap and big white supercilium that is not grey and white like the Dunlin”. 

'Are you sure, I thought it would be bigger?' 

'No, they are the about the same size as a Dunlin but with slightly longer legs and bill'. 

I apply the coup de grace. 

'I have seen quite a few in China you know' 

'Really?' 

'Yes. That is a juvenile Sharp-tailed Sandpiper'. 

Clackers gets out his pager. He is the only birder present with a pager. We debate briefly whether to publicise our find. 

'Give it five Clackers. Let’s watch and enjoy it for ourselves, just for a bit. I’m enjoying this. There’s plenty of time”. 

We watch it for ten to fifteen minutes. 

'OK Clackers give it out. Let’s go nationwide!'

Twenty minutes later the vanguard of pager alerted birders arrive. We are surrounded by an increasing throng of anxious birders. 

'Where is it mate?' 

'It’s flown out of view but it always comes back, usually with the Dunlin flock to that area of mud with all the Lapwings on it. By the way there are two Long-billed Dowitchers out there also'. 

Clackers regales anyone who will listen on how the sequence of chance events led to us finding the Sharp-tailed Sandpiper. For a tense twenty minutes there is no sign of it, the birders present reach three figures and then as predicted it flies back in with the Dunlin. 

Everyone gets to see it.

We hang around for an hour or so getting some really good but distant views as we are at the front. We also find a drake Goosander and a couple of Bewick’s Swans. Eventually we decide we have had enough and leave them to it. Oh yes! Life can be so good!

This is only the second juvenile Sharp-tailed Sandpiper to be found in Britain since 1974 and only the 29^th record of this species in Britain. Three have also been seen in Ireland

** It turns out that our suspicions about ‘the stint’ were correct. It was a Semi-palmated Sandpiper, as a local birder managed to get much closer to the waders and this particular individual and took some conclusive photos which were published on www.cvlbirding.co.uk and a link was put on Birdforum on 03rd December. So an already brilliant day in retrospect just got a whole lot better

Twitchers at Chew Valley Lake

A Siberian Rubythroat at Gulberwick Shetland 22nd October 2011

It sounds so innocuous, does it not, but this was no ordinary event. The bird in question, a Siberian Rubythroat was only the eighth of its species to be recorded in Britain and for the vast majority of British birders represented the ultimate prize in birding cum twitching, especially as it was a male in all it's splendid finery. I saw it. In fact I saw it fifteen times over a period of six hours whilst standing at one end of a windswept stony drive leading to a house, sheltered by ornamental bushes and wind stunted trees. It took me three days, 1102 miles and 16 hours of driving plus two 12 hour ferry crossings in heavy seas to do it but I achieved it in the company of Paul Wren.

This is the sequence of extraordinary events leading to our successful twitch.

Badger alerted me by text on the 19th October to the fact that there was a male Siberian Rubythroat on Mainland, Shetland. Shetland! - you have to be joking, that’s virtually Scandinavia. No, wait a minute, it is Scandinavia! To get there costs a fortune and the only way is to fly as birds like this never remain for long. To fly costs a fortune. I cannot afford that and anyway it will be gone tomorrow. Tomorrow arrives and it is still there. I call Badger who sensibly declines any ideas of going but suggests trying Paul. I call Paul who is already asking his wife to look at flights. I find myself agreeing to also look at flights and logistics for him. Why am I doing this? I’m definitely not going. Certainly not after finding out the cost of flights from various airports around Britain. I speak to Paul and tell him it is out of the question. He responds with the fact that there is an alternative - a car ferry. 

'Pardon'? 

'A ferry, it sails from Aberdeen.' 

I respond, saying 

 'Aberdeen is a very long way away and we will have to drive for eight hours before we even get on the ferry'. 

Paul replies 

'You are right let’s forget it ............ but it is a male'. 

The phone goes dead. 

I go to bed that night with no further thoughts other than it would be nice to see a Siberian Rubythroat that was about six hundred miles nearer, preferably on the local RSPB reserve at Otmoor or in my garden. I wake at six the next morning with an IDEA! Ideas at this time are not good news but I persist and eventually by half six I have formulated a plan. Normally these plans become dust as sleep recedes and sanity prevails but I persist. I will wait until seven, then call Paul immediately, suggest we meet at nine at the latest, drive five hundred plus miles to Aberdeen, catch the ferry which we haven’t even booked and which takes twelve hours to get to Lerwick, drive off the ship and no problem the bird is only a few minutes from the ferry terminal. We should be there on Tuesday morning. 

Simple. 

The only remotely encouraging and sensible part of this insanity is the fact that the bird is very near the ferry terminal. It will however, undoubtedly be gone by the time we get there. Siberian Rubythroats only show themselves to birders who charter planes. 

Forget it.  

Seven am arrives and I call Paul. I put the plan to him and astoundingly he agrees to it, telling me he is at work but already has his bag packed with all his birding gear just in case. How does he know? I now, having had my bluff called, find myself having to hastily pack everything I need, inform my ever supportive wife of the insane plan and head off into the morning traffic.

I collect Paul at Woodstock and we are on the road bang on nine in the morning. It really is happening. Paul tells me the bird has already been reported this morning as still being there. We book ourselves and the ever faithful Audi onto the ferry as we drive up the M40. We are now twitching. Big time. This is it. A huge gamble. A big adventure. A steady drive north with two stops for coffee, diesel etc and we arrive in Aberdeen at five thirty that evening in the rush hour. 

Surreal. 

We find the ferry terminal with “nae bother” and line up waiting to board the car. Paul announces he wants to go to the toilet but remains in the car. Thirty minutes later he finally decides to go and sets off  just when I am given the go ahead to drive onto the huge ferry, MV Hrossey. 

A hasty return to the car by Paul. 

'I am sure they must have toilets on the ferry'. 

We get on the ferry, find the toilets and then the bar. Sailing time arrives - seven thirty -  and it is dark as we slowly creep out of the harbour past huge, brightly illuminated oil rig support vessels. 

'I told you we were in Scandinavia - they all have Norwegian names.' 

Not a trawler in sight. The lights of the vessels and Aberdeen recede into the darkness and we contemplate the daunting prospect of twelve hours of nothing but trying to get some sleep in the not so reclining chairs. They are not comfortable. We try the floor. Even less comfortable, horribly hard and cold. We try the seats again. We close our eyes hoping when we open them it will all be over. We open our eyes, it is only nine pm. Another ten hours of this. Groan. Back to the floor. Then the seats. Then the floor again. Finally the seats again. I throw my fleece over my head to cut out the lights and I must have passed out. I am awakened by an announcement that we are one hour out from Lerwick. I have no idea how long I have been asleep but I do not feel too bad.

We go down to the car deck, driving off the ferry as it is just getting light in Lerwick and as Paul, from previous visits has the local knowledge, quickly find ourselves at Gulberwick Church which is the designated spot for our tilt at eternal happiness. 

Gulberwick Church

Paul is very nervous and convinced the bird will have flown but I am confident it will be here. There is no reason for my confidence. I know just as much or little as Paul but throughout the journey driving north and on the ferry crossing I just knew it would not have gone and we would see it. We parked the car, at just before eight am, in an empty car park by the church and walked up the track to a gate across a drive and a sign which says 

Stand here to get the best views of the Rubythroat. 

We stand there with our scopes focused on the far end of the drive. Other birders join us from a taxi. I just keep looking at a particular spot at the end of the drive which looks the most likely place for a Siberian Rubythroat to appear. Not that I know anything about them apart from the fact they are skulking and behave like a Robin. 

A Robin duly appears out of nowhere, feeding furtively on the drive. I don’t make a fool of myself! 

Some fifteen minutes later there is a flick of wings and another bird flies low from the bushes on the left, across the drive and perches briefly atop a large stone on the other side. Tail cocked and wings drooped. Grey brown body, white stripes on black face and an almost luminescent red throat. No time to be excited. 

I just say 

'There it is - on the stone' 

Even as I speak it flicks its wings and is gone further right and out of sight.

No one else saw it but me. Paul did not see the bird as it was just too quick. However at least we  definitely know it is still here which was a major concern for Paul and so he and the other birders can hopefully, partially relax in that knowledge. Another tense wait ensued. Forty or so minutes passed with just the odd Blackbird landing on the drive and then it flew back low across the drive from the bushes on the right and a few seconds later showed itself from under the same bushes it had flown from when I first saw it, hopping along the side of the path, perching on low growing plants and then the stone before finally disappearing back into the bushes. Various exclamations and gasps of relief came from around me as all my fellow birders connect with this beautiful and much desired avian gem. 

It all happened so quickly that it is difficult to remember what I saw but this is what I think I noted at the time or maybe this was amassed over the fifteen times I saw it. Who really cares. What a picture it presented, a magnificent, iridescent red chin and throat, huge white stripes over its eye, broad white stripes running down the sides of the throat from the bill contrasting with a black face. Its upper-parts were more grey than brown. The under-parts showed grey on the breast and a warm orange buff on the flanks with pure white under-tail coverts. Its behaviour was very robin like, bobbing and flicking its tail and wings, constantly nervous and rarely still for longer than a few seconds. It appeared slimmer and possibly smaller than a Robin. 

The relief of tension amongst my fellow birders was palpable. Paul was now one very happy and relieved man, grinning and punching the air and shaking everyone’s hand. Up until this point there had been absolute silence as everyone waited to see the bird but now the volume levels increased considerably as adrenalin took over and birding decorum rapidly went downhill. Despite the rising decibels we decided that we would remain here for as long as possible to see as much of the bird as we could because this would probably be a unique occurrence for both of us and we should make the most of it. We had after all travelled an awfully long distance to see it. The bird seemed to have developed a vague routine and would show itself briefly every forty minutes or so, usually in the same area of bushes. Some of the views were excellent, others more brief and tantalising but it was constantly thrilling waiting for the next glimpse and by the time we left at two thirty we had seen it from all angles no less than fifteen times and really felt our huge effort and long journey had been fully justified and we had seen the bird really well. No Bagnallesque micro-second only views for us! I estimated over a six hour period (0800-1430) we had seen it for around seven to eight minutes.

I must also acknowledge a huge kindness from Mr Ockendon, the friendly owner of the property who about four hours into our odyssey drove down the drive, passed through the gate and parked his car behind us. What was going on? He duly opened the tailgate of the car to reveal thermos flasks of coffee and packets of Digestive biscuits and invited us to help ourselves, no charge. 

What a truly magnificent gesture and a life saver for us, as with no breakfast I was feeling a little faint from lack of food. The sustenance and the kindly gesture revived me no end and I am sure the same sentiments were probably felt by the rest of the birders present. The wind had been steadily increasing during our vigil and was getting progressively stronger, blowing straight into our backs and up the drive.  Thankfully there was no rain so we stuck it out for a while longer and were rewarded with further views but we had agreed that at two thirty we would leave which is what we did.

The road leading to the distant house where the rubythroat
was to be found

So the successful end to our madcap twitch came and it was back to the car but not before celebratory photos to record the moment of our triumph. Both of us were ravenous by now not having eaten anything substantial since the night before and we went in search of a fish and chip shop of which there appeared to be no shortage in Lerwick. We settled on the Happy Haddock which had the twin attractions of being warm and had tables so we could eat inside the premises.

With hunger satisfied we did a bit of birding around the quaysides before going in search of the ferry. The main highlight was very close views of winter plumaged Black Guillemots. Finally, as the light began to fade we made our way back to the ferry terminal to book in for the trip back. The forecast was dire, with gales and strong seas predicted. Our spirits began to waiver at the prospect of another twelve hours lying on the floor of the ferry or trying to sleep upright in the not so reclining chairs. Grown men should not cry but it was coming close. I spoke to the girl on the desk about the weather prospects and almost as an afterthought asked if it would be possible to upgrade our tickets to get a cabin and if so how much would it cost. 

'Just a wee minute I will have a look' says she 

Then announced she had cabins available but it would cost another £84. I looked at Paul and he looked at me. There was something in his eyes approaching desperation. Probably the same went for me. Neither of us spoke, the world turned and then I spoke the fateful words. 

'We’ll take it'. 

The sense of relief and warm glow that enveloped me and I guess Paul will stay forever. One of the best calls I have ever made. The nightmare scenario of THE FLOOR was banished. Paul broke into smiles and was obviously as relieved as me. I was relieved Paul was relieved. Let’s face it if she had said £840 we would probably have taken it. We boarded the ship with just a few other people, found our cabin and looked in awe at the facilities now available to us - a mattress and a duvet for each of us, our own bathroom, shower and tea making facilities. The night was now not to be feared and would be more than bearable. It would be brilliant. I confess I lay on the bed and just kicked my legs in pleasure. We were like a couple of kids released from school and the world had become a much better place.

A change of clothes and up to the bar for a few celebratory whiskies - Glen Morangie for Paul, Old Pulteney for me. We watched some football on the TV, a trawler crew proceeded to drain the bar, the ship slipped out of Lerwick and began to roll on the raging seas. We looked at the time, only eight in the evening, we tried to last out to nine but it was hopeless. We were more tired than we cared to admit. Inwardly content with that indescribable feeling of a successful long haul twitch under our belts we hit the pillows around nine and felt the ship being bounced around on the seas as we slept on soft mattresses. Pity the poor souls who were roughing it on the floor. They would be rolling in the aisles - literally. The ship was inevitably delayed getting into Aberdeen due to the heavy seas and we docked at around nine thirty. It was then a long drive south with a couple of hours stop in Glasgow to see Polly, my daughter. We were home in Oxford by eight that night. It seemed like we had been away for weeks.

We had done it. 

We had gambled. 

We had seen the birder’s Holy Grail. 

A Siberian Rubythroat. 

A Scilly Twitch on St Mary's 20-21st September 2011

                                                    

The Megamometer rose to dizzying heights on the weekend of 17-18th September with a report of a Black and White Warbler being found in the woods at Lower Moors on St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly. Shortly afterwards, it went completely off the scale as a Northern Waterthrush was reported nearby on the Project Pool, overlooked by the ISBG Hide. This combination was virtually irresistible and I called Badger to see if he was interested, later in the week, in a drive through the night to Penzance and a trip on the jolly old Scillonian. Badger wanted to hang on and see what happened but with a bit of prodding from yours truly accepted that this was the chance of a lifetime to see two mega American vagrants in one go. In the end we waited until Monday and when both birds were reported as still there it was agreed that we would go in the early hours of Tuesday morning and because of the potential difficulties of seeing these birds would stay a night on Scilly and return on Wednesday afternoon. The reasoning being it would give us more time to see both birds - for they were not guaranteed by a long shot as so far they had both proved elusive, especially the Northern Waterthrush and only brief views of both birds had been obtained. 

So it was that Badger spent the night at my house in Kingham and we left for the west at three am on Tuesday morning. Some three and a half hours later we arrived in Penzance to be greeted by a grey and damp Cornish dawn.

The Audi was secreted in a convenient lay by in a side street near to the harbour at Penzance, we loaded up our gear, walked down to the pier and after a little wait boarded The Scillonian. Whilst sat waiting to leave the pier Badger arranged overnight accommodation via his mobile phone with Marlene who ran a bed and breakfast at a house called Treboeth in the wonderfully named Buzzer Street in Hugh Town on St Mary's. We were now all set for a serious twitch. 

The two hour journey over to St Mary’s was uneventful but the weather was becoming increasingly unpleasant with light rain getting progressively heavier and showing no sign of abating. We got chatting to a bird artist called Richard Thewlis who had just been made redundant from the BTO(British Trust for Ornithology) and was going to spend a week on Scilly. We exchanged phone numbers, mutually promising to get in touch if we had any news whilst on the island about the two mega rarities. This was, in hindsight, the smartest move we made that morning. Fifteen Storm Petrels and a slightly queezy stomach later, The Scillonian eventually docked at eleven thirty in Hugh Town and we made our way in the rain to our accommodation.

We left our stuff with the obliging Marlene and in no time set off, still in the rain for Lower Moors to try to locate and hopefully get to see the Black and White Warbler. Admittedly it had not been reported all morning but because of the rain I could not see how it could have gone anywhere. We arrived at the wood and my heart sank. The wood was extensive with many no go areas of dense dripping vegetation and was, in places, a quagmire underfoot. How on earth would we find a tiny warbler in all of this? Thankfully we had heeded the advice to bring wellington boots so we left the path and waded through various 'grimpen' bogs and ducked under low branches, following a rough trail made by other Black and White pilgrims. We carried on to the other side of the wood until we came across some birders gathered forlornly in a slightly open area under the dripping trees. It transpired that the warbler had been seen here briefly that morning so at least we had the assurance it was still in the wood but finding it was an entirely different and far more uncertain prospect.

Not a bird was in sight on our arrival and for the next two hours we stood staring at a very boring collection of wet twigs, branches, leaves and fellow birders, occasionally becoming briefly animated as the arrival and equally hasty departure of a Wren, Great Tit or Common ChiffChaff raised and then dashed our collective hopes. We were soaked and in my case literally to the skin with the incessantly falling rain. Having been up since three in the morning, now absolutely soaked through and getting progressively colder I was losing a lot of my initial hope and optimism. In fact to be honest I was downright miserable, nothing new there then, but I reasoned it was best to stay put as from my experience vagrant warblers develop a circuit and reason dictated that if we stayed put eventually the warbler would show up on it's circuit. It had apparently been seen most times at this very spot but my faith in my theory was now being severely tested. Suddenly there was a murmur and slight kerfuffle amongst the fifteen or so birders scattered around me. Had they seen the warbler? No - a Baltimore Oriole, another mega, had been found on The Garrison. Those whose patience had run out and/or still had some common sense intact, left in a hurry, but there was no way I was going anywhere. I had put in two hours of purgatory and would stay here until dark if necessary to give myself the best chance of seeing this elusive warbler in the metaphorical wood cum haystack.

Half an hour later my iron resolve was turning to rust and I too was on the verge of going to try somewhere else, when one of the six birders who had remained behind with us cried out he could see the warbler. Badger had wandered off as Badgers do and came back at a fast amble but was told to stand still exactly where he was as the bird was right above his head! Panic, anxiety, frustration all the usual mix of twitcher angst passed through me and probably everyone else as I sought the transatlantic waif in amongst the twigs and wet leaves in the tree above. It did not take long to locate it and this almost hallowed bird from far across the ocean put on a command performance for twenty five minutes that will live long in the memory. It's pleasing black and white stripes, broad white supercilium and black crown with central white crown stripe were all seen to good effect. It behaved much like a Great Tit moving up and down lichen covered willow branches and even hanging underneath them, digging into lichen and loose bark, at times giving  really close and extended views. It occasionally called a hard “tzek, but for the most part remained silent. It appeared untroubled by our presence and foraged constantly for invertebrates in amongst the leaves and lichen covered branches. We followed it with varying exclamations of pleasure and in fact the person behind me regularly let out gasps and groans of almost orgasmic intensity. A bit scary and highly amusing. In fairness he too had been waiting five hours in the wet. The warbler moved slowly but constantly through the twigs and branches from tree to tree, occasionally staying still to deal with a caterpillar it had found in the lichen. The last I saw of it was when it was using the rain as a shower, bathing and preening on a twig high up in a tree and then finally moving off to become lost to view in the wet leaves of another tree.

Oh Yes! Oh Gawd! Oh Wonder!.We had done it! The gamble had paid off. Badger and I shook hands, the other birders became our instant friends and we released the tension of the wait by sharing our experiences. I think I just stood there for a few minutes savouring this magical moment and then we retreated from the wood with me gallantly pushing a guy in a wheelchair out of the wood and over the fields to the road. How he got in there in the first place was a source of wonder as even with the full use of two legs it had been no easy task.

We left him, at his insistence, on the road and resolved to go and try for the Baltimore Oriole at The Garrison. I was now sweating and in fact steaming after my exertions with the wheelchair as well as soaking wet from the rain. My feet hurt after standing in wellington boots for hours but we pressed on to the Garrison. In the wood the rain had appeared to be relatively light but out in the open it was really heavy. We arrived on the Garrison to learn from Bob Flood that we had just missed seeing the Oriole and the rain continued to fall relentlessly. To persevere in this rain was hopeless and a waste of both time and energy. We agreed to retreat back to Lower Moors and the ISBG Hide where at least we could sit in shelter and hope the Northern Waterthrush would put in an appearance when it flew into roost, still some hours away. I did not hold out much hope but it was by far the best and most appealing option in all this rain. 

We commenced the walk to the site and as we approached Badger received a call from our new friend Richard. Gasps and exclamations emanated from the Badger. What is it? It must be good? On finishing the call a bedraggled Badger announced that Richard was on his own at the hide watching the Northern Waterthrush! Great fortune seemed to be still smiling on us as we were literally only a few hundred metres away from where Richard was located. Then a unique and surreal experience occurred as the Badger broke into a run. I had never seen this before and it was not just an amble but the real thing. I chased after him still trying to believe my eyes. We ran as best we could down the path, into and through the wood and followed the obvious trail through the reeds. I could see Richard standing by the Hide with an incongruous umbrella held over his head and after a few twists and turns we reached him. I should add that I never saw anyone in the hide. Presumably it remained unoccupied as it resembled something from the trenches of the First World War complete with knee deep mud at the entrance. Maybe there were still ghosts of birders in there who had never re-emerged from its stygian depths. 

Richard told us quietly that the waterthrush had been showing really well but had just disappeared behind a clump of juncus at the back of the pool. Apparently it was very shy and kept retreating into the subterranean gloom beneath the overhanging and very soggy vegetation around the pool. Richard whispered 

“It’s in the far right hand corner, just wait and it will come out. It’s been showing really well.”

A short wait of just a few minutes, some movement and there it was. Bins to eyes and nothing! The bins had misted up against my hot and sweaty face! Panic with the tissues and then clarity through the bins. I should say that what I first saw standing out in the gloom under the bank was the most enormous, yellowish cream supercilium, on a bird with otherwise nondescript brown upperparts. It moved left and more into the open between two clumps of juncus. Now I could see the whole bird. The underparts, clearly visible, were creamy white with lines of dark spots running from it's throat all the way down the breast and along the flanks. The upperparts were mid brown and featureless. But it was that amazing supercilium and the dark eye stripe that caught my attention every time and it was always the supercilium that kept me on the bird when the rest of it was so hard to see in the gloom under the banks. It seemed to gain confidence and came more into the open and worked it's way around the pool coming ever closer. Two short flights brought it from one side of the pool to the other and ever closer. I said to Badger all it needs to do now is appear on that mud just a few metres in front of us and it duly did. This bird, dare I say it, edged the Black and White Warbler into second place. But that is my personal opinion. The views we were getting were fabulous and then it came right out in the open and oh! so close. It was always nervous and behaved more like a pipit or wagtail, running with short steps and constantly pumping it's tail downwards. Richard, Badger and myself stood and watched this ornithological gem, utterly entranced. Just the three of us communing with a mega but then Richard felt he should put the news out for other birders to share our good fortune which was only right. 

We continued to watch it for another twenty minutes before the first wet and hyper anxious birder arrived, swiftly followed by even more hyper birders. Their frenzied arrival spooked the bird and it retreated into cover. We gently tried to tell them to calm down and relax and it would show up again. A nervous wait and then they too saw it. The tension eased, we relinquished our spaces in the cramped viewing area to others, thanked and bade goodbye to Richard. We were wet, cold and tired. Did it matter? Not one bit! Any inconvenience had all but been forgotten in that magical hour while we watched the waterthrush. We now started being silly and I took photos of Badger doing acrobatics and adopting silly poses as we walked back to Treboeth on Cloud Nine. We changed clothes and tried to dry out as best we could. The euphoria we felt was almost tangible. We had done it in one day! Incredible, considering how many difficulties everyone before us had experienced with the Northern Waterthrush. Could it be that the rain and consequent absence of birders had encouraged it to be so bold? Whatever, it was our good fortune to watch it close up for almost an hour. We need not worry about tomorrow, for now we could relax next morning, have breakfast and take our time looking for the other goodies on the island.

The weather forecast for tomorrow was for sun and no rain. But for tonight  The Mermaid pub was now top priority and we got a table and hit the Rattler cider with a vengeance. Four pints and a delicious meal later we veered off back to Treboeth. I was so tired I cannot recall even lying on the bed, we may even have done handstands on the way home but next morning I awoke at seven and was ready to go birding.

The next day, Wednesday, the weather was, as promised the direct opposite of Tuesday.We had a leisurely breakfast and headed for The Garrison. Now the mission was to try and nail the Baltimore Oriole which had already been reported that morning from the vicinity of the Pig Field at the back of The Garrison. On arrival at the spot we received the usual dreaded incantation “You should have been here a few minutes ago!” No matter we took up position overlooking the field and waited. I cancelled the taxi we had booked for Newford Duckpond. We waited some more. Badger wandered off to make some calls and this doubtless inspired the oriole to fly into the bushes in front of us on the far side of the field. It treated us to a stunning display of it's features as it consumed blackberries. Badger was seen running for the second time in two days and everyone was happy as the oriole hung around for thirty minutes and then was gone as suddenly as it arrived.

We decided to head for the ISBG Hide at Lower Moors, not for the Northern Waterthrush but for the Solitary Sandpiper which had decided to also make the pool it's home today rather than Newford Duckpond. We reached the hide to find a lot more birders than yesterday, waiting in vain for the Northern Waterthrush which was not co-operating. Smugly we watched the Solitary Sandpiper whilst everyone else was willing the waterthrush to emerge from wherever it was hiding. Richard was here again, making a painting of the waterthrush, as seen by us yesterday. I commissioned him on the spot to do one for me and was delighted when he agreed. We watched the confiding Solitary Sandpiper living up to it's name and then headed for the airport to view some Buff-breasted Sandpipers but half way there changed our mind and turned instead for Newford Duckpond as the Blue-winged Teal had apparently returned there after a day’s absence. It was a long and tiring walk, especially as I was in the dreaded wellingtons. We trudged on and found a couple of Spotted Flycatchers. More amazing to me was the host of seemingly exotic plants thriving in the gardens. It was just like southern Europe in some sheltered parts. We finally reached the Watermill area and started down the road to Newford Duckpond. I remarked to Badger about the number of Song Thrushes that were about here and following one in my bins suddenly found myself looking at a European Bee-eater swinging in the wind, perched on a twiggy hawthorn. It was quietly chirruping to itself and every so often would make a sortie after a bee. Bee-eaters being one of Badger’s favourites meant we spent some time here and I did my bit for birder /public relations by showing passing non birders this colourful bird and without fail elicited the required Ooohs! and Aaahs! when they saw it through the scope. 

The duckpond was close by and on arrival we found to our distress that the teal had flown leaving a motley collection of Mallards and a lone male Gadwall in eclipse plumage, swimming around on a ridiculously small area of water. We stared at the mud, water and reeds as if the teal should appear by magic but it was not there. Now what do we do? We backtracked and had another helping of the Bee-eater and then re-traced our steps. My feet were getting progressively more tired. Curse these wellington boots but they would come into their own later. A diversion up a lane to try and see a Red-eyed Vireo proved fruitless. We cut our losses and decided for more Black and White Warbler action.

Wellingtons were now definitely the footwear of choice as we squelched through the mire and water to re-find the spot where we had seen it yesterday. We reached the hallowed ground but there was no sign of the warbler despite regular reports of it being seen throughout the day. An hour passed and then a low whistle from a birder some hundred metres away alerted us to it's presence. A controlled rush to the spot and six very happy birders enjoyed watching the feathered humbug do it's stuff in the trees. This time there was no rain to obscure lenses and a relaxed atmosphere permeated the woods as we watched the warbler examining in almost leisurely and systematic fashion every little nook and cranny in the branches. We watched it for over an hour this time and got even better views than yesterday. I noted as many plumage features as I could – its pale lower mandible, the striking white covert bars and the broad white line along the outer edge of the tertials, its dark eye in a plain white face and the white spots on the underside of the tail come to mind. What a star. 

Time was now rolling on and soon we would have to head for the Scillonian which like the tide waits for no man. However there was still time to visit the airport where we found the four juvenile Buff-breasted Sandpipers plus an unexpected Ruff. Three Whimbrel and a Curlew flew over and White Wagtails and Northern Wheatears chased around on the short grass by the runway. We could not locate the Woodchat Shrike but for us it was mission accomplished as in the space of twenty eight magical hours we had seen three megas plus some other very good birds. A fast walk back to Treboeth to change footwear and then an even faster walk down to the harbour and onto the Scillonian. Unlike yesterday it was packed with birders many of whom had come just for the day and were now returning. They had opted for the very strategy we were, in hindsight so wary of, and rightly so, as all of these day birders had failed to see the Northern Waterthrush. Needless to say it was seen the next morning! We chatted to our fellow birders about our Scilly experiences and about the controversial Long-toed Stint at Weir Wood Reservoir in Sussex which so far had been three different species in seven days. I sea-watched on the sunny deck of the Scillonian, as a pod of Common Dolphins sped around us and two Black Terns and a couple of Grey Phalaropes on the sea rounded off the day. All we had now was the long slog home but nothing could dampen our spirits after such an amazing experience.

Northern Waterthrush - Painting by Richard Thewlis