More on Frogs - 2nd March 2026

What a difference four days have made!.

I returned to the same pools where I had watched a dozen or so frogs commencing their annual breeding cycle at the end of last month but this time the favoured pool was alive with activity as from a lethargic dozen the number of frogs had risen to a much energised fifty to sixty.

The weather too had improved markedly from last Thursday's chilly,. grey and overcast late morning with a northeast wind gusting down the valley to one of sunshine and a milder southwest wind signifying Spring had truly arrived.No doubt about it.

Walking down the valley a Blackcap sang from the surrounding trees, the pure notes of its song a brief exultant exclamation dominating the still air. A sulphur yellow Brimstone butterfly flickered an erratic course across the shiny  heads of early flowering Celandines, their simple four petalled flowers like fallen yellow stars lying in the damp fen by my feet. Spring, the sweet Spring!

Arriving at the pools it was a scene of ceaseless, restless activity in the same much quieter pool I had stood over a few days ago. A myriad of frogs heads poked above the water, facing towards the sun, which illuminated their china white throats as they swelled to produce an immensely relaxing, gentle purring sound. To call it a croak would be a gross slur on the soothing pleasant sound the frogs chorusing produced. Truly a frog choir.

I looked down to the edge of the pool by the boardwalk and noted that, unlike my last visit, great jellied mounds of frog spawn now lay at the shallow water's edge like grey submerged clouds while a multitude of frogs driven by their nuptial ardour clambered heedless and careless amongst it.  

The majority of frogs were males, barging and jostling each other in blunt rivalry and it was hard to discern an obvious female but by paying close attention we found a pair in amplexus (Latin for embrace), where the male frog clings tightly to the female in a mating hug, riding on her back and waiting for that time when she ejects her spawn and he fertilises it as it emerges.The difference in size was marked, the male grey and smaller with a white throat still swelling as he produced his gentle purring, the female larger, bulky even, swollen with spawn and contrastingly coloured chestnut brown.

They tumbled around in the water amongst the spawn and emerging reeds, clumsy and unbalanced, the pair constantly harassed by other males seeking to usurp the incumbent male but all were destined to failure as her mate, chosen by the quality of his purring, clung tightly and resolutely to her.

We noted too the variety of colours in the individual frogs, the majority blue grey with white throats, but others in shades of olive and with distinct barring and spots on body and legs while others very much in the minority were unmarked reddish brown and larger. Could these larger reddish individuals be females? My knowledge of frog ecology is sadly lacking but I read that Common Frogs can vary widely in colour from green to brown and even red or yellow and shades in between. There were certainly a mixture of colours in the pool today. The two reddish brown individuals I observed being particularly striking.

Three colour variations in the Common Frogs I saw today

There are always questions and conumdrums.The more you observe the more you realise how uch you have to learn. I know so little about these secretive amphibians, rarely encountering them apart from these few days in early Spring.

We stood for almost an hour, fascinated by the evolving activity as the frogs appeared and disappeared in the clear water, rising to face the sun and sinking to the bottom of the pond, jostling and barging in sudden bursts of frenzied movement then to lie still and watchful.

It will all be over by the end of the week.

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 continued 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 roller coaster ride of indecision as to whether to go and see it or not. Cornwall is a very 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 up my mind to go to Cornwall,  planning to leave in the early hours (3am) of Saturday to arrive at Newlyn around 7.30am, shortly after dawn.

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 Ross's Gulls so why subject myself to the torture of yet another long and 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 not 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 in the dark. 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 Newlyn 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, sunny 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. Rather too often we 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 away 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.

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 the pier, planning to go and look either for a very rare and elusive Pacific Diver reported 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 orange 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 has its own charm combining a 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 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 the 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 carrying 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 I felt 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.

The entrance to the harbour as seen from the end of the North Pier

A ten minute powerwalk down the pier I was on, all tiredness and fatigue now long forgotten in the surge 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 fabled Arctic vagrant.

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.

And that was my day in Cornwall.

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 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 in the cold water, supported by a combination of dead and emerging 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. It looked unlikely today however.

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, blundering and heedless of their error in the 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)

Males getting it wrong

A couple of frogs decided they wanted to move from one pool to another and in a series of giant hops proceeded across an intervening stretch of 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 frog's heart was not in it, 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 of frogs 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 approach of Spring and another year of regeneration.