Nightjaring & a Montys :: 27/28 June 2025

What a 24hrs that was ...

Kev @kev07713 and I hadn’t managed to find the time to visit our usual nightjar spot this year. He’d even considered making the trip on his own with his wife, Karen, but that plan never quite came together either. On this Friday evening, after finishing work and with my wife away at the tennis in Eastbourne, I had dinner with my daughters and decided to head out alone. I’d checked with Kev to see if he was free, but he wasn’t.

Nightjaring — the quiet art of slipping into the dusk, waiting under darkening skies for the strange, whirring, "churring" songs of the nightjar — is a ritual of stillness and sound, of twilight wings brushing the edges of silence. I arrived with time to spare and settled on a bench, listening in the fading light for the first signs of that mechanical, continuous purr, like an engine idling somewhere just out of sight.

Late spring to mid‑summer, roughly May to July, offers the prime window for nightjars. Warm, still evenings at dusk and dawn are ideal; the birds stir just after sunset and may call or hawk insects well into the night. They favour open heath and moorland, woodland edges, clear‑fell and young conifer plantations - anywhere with scattered trees and wide sweeps of bare ground. This patch ticks every box, and I could see nightjar surveyors out again this year, almost certainly from the BTO.

I settled in to enjoy the quiet, broken only by a young lad - perhaps in his late teens or early twenties - who whirred past on an e‑bike. He seemed upset, so we talked for a while. By the end he thanked me, saying he would reach out for help and find someone qualified to talk things through. He left looking lighter. I hope he does find the support and friends he needs; it’s not easy for youngsters when so much of life plays out on a phone screen these days.

Around 9.30 pm the first nightjar started up, churring beyond the trees behind me, then fell silent as abruptly as it began. Just as I turned to investigate, another bird began to chur from the spot where I’d been standing earlier. The survey team on the far slope grew noticeably livelier, and a woodcock ghosted overhead, its silhouette clear against the last light.

Darkness gathered before I finally caught a nightjar flitting across the sky above the opposite ridge. I glimpsed it two or three times, then another bird appeared off to my right. When that one settled on a branch, I found it through the scope and enjoyed a few crisp views. Photography at that range was tricky; after the bird moved on, I halved the distance and waited. It returned, and though the light was all but gone I managed a record shot. From that vantage I could pick out three separate birds churring. After about forty‑five minutes I slipped away, feeling my way through the black heath back to the car - tomorrow’s dawn birding awaited, and Banbury was still an hour’s drive away.

Almost back at the car, I came across two nightjars darting and weaving through the trees beside the track. In the darkness, I couldn’t find them in the camera viewfinder, so I gave up trying to photograph them and simply stood and watched. A third bird called from the side - another individual, I believe, different from the ones I’d seen earlier. I stayed there for about ten minutes, taking in their fleeting silhouettes under the sky, before finally packing up in the pitch black. I’d hoped for a quick drive home, but a road closure forced me onto a diversion, adding at least 20 minutes to the journey.

While I’d been waiting for the nightjars earlier, Kev and I had been messaging to plan the following morning. A Montagu’s harrier had been reported on Wednesday and then on and off since. Initially sighted by a local farmer who said it had been “around lately,” the bird’s ID sparked debate - some thought it might be a pallid harrier rather than a Montagu's. But with the arrival of more photos and video, the ID was confirmed: Montagu’s. We decided to meet at Otmoor at around 7:00 am, planning to be in position by 8.00 am, ready to follow any updates on the bird’s whereabouts.

Once a scarce but regular summer breeder in southern England, the Montagu’s harrier has suffered a dramatic decline due to habitat loss and agricultural intensification. By 2020, there were no confirmed UK breeding attempts - a troubling milestone not seen since 1975, despite targeted conservation work by the RSPB since the early 2000s. In recent years, most UK records have involved lone passage birds, rarely staying long.

The next morning, my alarm went off early. I dressed, checked my phone, and there it was, the Montagu’s had already been seen, coming out of roost and even pausing long enough for photos and video as it preened. This would be a lifer for me, so I quickly messaged Kev: “Let’s skip Otmoor and head straight to Cheddington.”

We arrived and parked in a small pull-in by a gate on what turned out to be a surprisingly busy road. Parking was limited, so we crossed over carefully and joined a small group of birders. One of them mentioned he’d missed the bird by just five minutes - it had flown off behind the barns and hadn’t been seen since. That was an hour before we got there, so we settled in, hoping patience would pay off.

We chatted while keeping watch - red kites, buzzards, and ravens helped pass the time, as did a lively show of corn buntings, meadow pipits, and yellow wagtails across the fields. At one point, a commotion between some raptors suggested something had been scavenged from a hidden ditch, but still no sign of the harrier.

I wandered back to the car to refill my flask and found Steve Alley, an Oxford birder, standing in the gateway nearby. We talked for a few minutes, listening to a corn bunting singing from a wire. Then, across the ridge behind the others, I spotted a raptor interacting with a red kite - something different. I pointed it out to Steve, and he immediately confirmed it: … “That’s our bird.” I shouted to alert the rest, but the traffic drowned me out. I took off towards the other birders, only to spot the Montagu’s crossing the road ahead and dropping into the field. Seconds later, Kev appeared to tell me the bird was showing, only to realise I was already halfway there.

I joined the group and quickly got onto the bird - distant, off to our right. It was quartering the field methodically, drifting from about the 2 o’clock position toward 12, gradually slowing as it crossed the track between the two large fields.

The Montagu’s harrier continued across the track, following a ditch that ran through the field to the left - in addition to photos (which wouldn't probably be great at this distance), I took a short video. As it reached the 10 o’clock position, it began to turn back, but gradually veered further away, crossing into the next field and then at the far edge it started rising steadily. We were all surprised by how high it climbed, soaring well above the trees, until eventually it drifted off beyond the distant tree line, far out of range for even a record shot.

Well that was a rush - a very special bird and although at distance we had good and prolonged views. Kev updated the sighting on Birdguides and I did the same on the Bucks Birders WhatsApp group.

We decided to wait a while longer, hoping the Montagu’s would return, and this time, we agreed to focus on simply enjoying the bird rather than trying to capture it in photos or video. Not long after, we were joined by Jim Hutchins @jimhutchins2, whom I’ve met before but never really spoken to - Kev knows him better, especially from crossing paths during big year listing. A couple of ravens passed by at close range, but otherwise, bird activity was fairly quiet. After another four hours with no further sign, we accepted that our time was up, packed our gear, and made our way home.

Dawlish Warren LNR :: 21 June 2025

A woodchat shrike was reported at Dawlish Warren NNR on 20 June 2025, an exciting and rare visitor to the reserve, which has recorded only a handful of sightings in the last two decades. These striking birds, easily recognised by their chestnut crown and bold black-and-white markings, breed in southern Europe and migrate to tropical Africa. They're uncommon in Britain, making any appearance notable.

This individual was first spotted near Warren Point and was still present around 9.00 p.m., moving into scrub by the edge of the golf course. It was well-watched by local birders and fortunate visitors, offering clear views despite harassment from linnets and skylarks.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of the lucky ones. With work commitments, getting down that late wasn’t realistic. Still, having dipped a few woodchat shrikes in the past, I managed to persuade Kev @kev07713 to prioritise this one over a much longer trip to Wykeham Forest for an Ortolan bunting, and then on for a Pacific golden plover. That would have been over an eight-hour round trip, minimum, not counting traffic. A two-day mission at best.

After agreeing on Dawlish, Kev heard from his sister Karen @hobbylovinglife and her partner Dean @worlebirder, that they were also heading there and expected to arrive by 6.00 a.m. We had no intention of matching their early start, but since they weren't stopping for breakfast, neither would we. A celebratory meal after seeing the bird seemed a more rewarding plan (power of positive thinking and all that).

On the road, we rang them for an update. Ironically, they had stopped for breakfast and were just setting off again with around 20 minutes to go. They told us where they’d pulled in, so we stopped at the same spot for food, hoping they might locate the bird before we got there and could share some intel.

Once on site, we paid for parking and made our way onto the reserve, phoning them again for news. No sign of the shrike - despite a thorough search, they hadn’t found it, nor had anyone else. We saw them out on Warren Point, scanning from afar, and joined them after a slow walk in, chatting to birders along the way. There were plenty of stonechats and linnets about, and an Eider offshore, singing skylarks, but no shrike.

We spent time scouring Warren Point together but still no luck. A few sandwich terns were scant consolation, but spirits were dipping with the tide. Fortunately, Kev didn't mention the other option and that I'd dipped again ...

Eventually, we began making our way back toward the Visitor Centre, scanning as we went - still mostly stonechats and linnets. As the rain started, I picked up some movement on a distant bush - Cirl buntings! - Dean and Karen had never managed to see any here, although Kev had. Through the scope, I confirmed the ID and called the others over. Though distant, we all managed to get views, photos, and videos. Just as we were about to move on, the buntings flushed and vanished to the right.

The rain intensified, and we sought some shelter near a pool, watching swans and ducks while listening to a calling water rail and some reed warblers.

Back near the Centre, Kev picked up a calling Cirl bunting off to our left. A male, singing and preening, was soon joined briefly by a female before she dropped out of sight. We had great views of the male for several minutes. I moved to get better light, and the bird relocated, flying about 50 metres before perching again. As we edged closer, it flew back to its original spot, then dropped to a lower perch, giving me time for a few final shots before disappearing for good.

Just as we turned, a kestrel that had been hovering nearby suddenly dived into the grass close to us. We assumed it had caught something - it stayed down for a while but when it emerged, its talons were empty. It soared up and away, soon back to hovering in the distance.

We climbed the path above the beach and scoped the sea, picking out distant shelducks with a line of chicks strung behind them and a very very distant gannet.

Looking back, I think this might be the last time we chase a woodchat shrike on day two. Dipping rare birds is one thing, but it’s not great for your state of mind.

Normandy Lagoon, Lymington :: 14 June 2025

The weather forecast once again predicted poor conditions, though it appeared that a portion of the south coast might escape the rain - luckily, this included Lymington and the Normandy Marsh. Kev @kev07713 and I had two main targets for the day: little terns, and the female long-tailed duck. There had also been reports of a roseate tern making occasional appearances, so we’d keep an eye out for that too. If time permitted, we planned to search for a Dartford warbler, a species I’d yet to encounter this year.

We parked further up the lane than usual, as all the regular spots near the gate were already taken. After gearing up, we walked to the edge of Normandy Lagoon and within minutes of scanning with his scope, Kev located the long-tailed duck. It was distant, initially swimming before climbing out of the water to preen briefly. Soon after, it settled down and went to sleep.

Long-tailed ducks are primarily Arctic breeders that typically winter around the northern and eastern coasts of Scotland and Northumberland. While small flocks or solitary individuals occasionally reach southern regions like Dorset, Kent, and West Sussex, they are uncommon this far south in June - around 14,000 are estimated to winter in UK waters. The female, unlike the striking male, is a more subdued brown and white, with a shorter tail and faint cheek patches

We began our walk around the lagoon and were soon watching little terns both out in the bay and across the lagoon itself. Habitat restoration efforts have clearly been made here - several islands within the lagoon have been fenced off and covered with pea-shingle to encourage nesting by little terns, as well as common and roseate terns. Along the lagoon’s edges, little terns were actively plunge-diving for small fish in a near-constant rhythm.

My initial attempts at photographing them weren’t great due to poor light direction, but after relocating to a better vantage point, I managed to capture some improved shots. With at least eight breeding pairs working the area, there were plenty of opportunities. While formal counts of breeding pairs aren’t conducted here, last year’s doubling of fledged chicks (from three to six) suggests a healthy and growing little tern population.

At one point, we watched a pair of little terns engage in a classic courtship display, spiralling high into the sky in tight circles, calling to each other all the while. Once aloft, they hovered side by side before dropping back down to one of the islands. This aerial dance is a pair-bonding ritual, often performed before or after mating, and sometimes preceding courtship feeding, where the male offers a small fish to the female.

The wind was quite strong, and it was much more comfortable walking along the narrow path below the sea wall, sheltered from the gusts.

Sharing the islands were numbers of common terns, many already with chicks - more than 60 pairs of common terns populated the site in 2024 and there was no indication of a reduction this year. The adult terns were bringing small fish back to the nest continuously, flying in from the Solent with fish trailing in their bills - often they would hover before landing, presumably to confirm there were no predators before landing - on other occasions the incoming bird would take off again seemingly upset that its partner wanted to take the fish - I can do it! They are busy parents and apparently one adult can deliver up to 50 fish a day to a hungry brood.

Out over the islands we started to spot a handful of Mediterranean gulls, landing in amongst the bleck-headed gull colony. Their call is quite distinct and Kev and I have got quite used to stopping for a look when we hear them overhead - distinctive and rather elegant call, often described as a mournful or drawn-out wail, softer and more musical than the harsher cries of the other gulls. The calls appeared to largely coincide during their arial displays and when disputes broke out when they landed. Not quite the views we had last week at WWT Slimbridge but great to see.

Since first breeding in the UK in 1968 the species has increased in number rapidly - to 2,400 pairs in 2018 (peak) before settling to around 1,200 pairs now. Once confined to the south and to eastern coasts breeding now extends into Scotland with the first breeding pairs confirmed in 2023.

On two occasions a roseate tern flew through, but I didn't manage to get a record shot of it. A pair bred here in the last two summers but as far as I know there is only one bird in the area.

Avocets disappeared from British breeding grounds by the 1840s. Remarkably they recolonised in 1947 on Suffolk's Minsmere reserve during WWII marsh flooding, sparking a dramatic recovery - a rise in breeding pair of 300% in 25 years. The wintering population has surged about 21-% since 1997, reaching about 8,700 birds. Initially concentrated on the East Anglia coast they now breed very widely. They are classified as amber-listed in the UK but are one of the few waders showing strong upward trends.

Avocets represent one of the UK's most remarkable wildlife success stories - from near extinction to now flourishing across the south coast and beyond, their expanding presence underscoring the successful habitat restoration that has taken place.

A male stonechat seemed to be following us and perched regularly on the fence between us and the lagoon. This was not the only individual, and we had some great views of what I think was a juvenile. Since 1995, the UK breeding stonechat population has jumped by approximately 258% - a long-term surge. In particular there has been an amazing circa 700% increase in umbers over recent decades. As they stopped on posts, gorse and low shrubs they called - a sharp, staccato "chak-chak" sound, reminiscent of stones tapping.

As we began to circle back, we continued to enjoy watching the variety of birdlife, once again spotting the female long-tailed duck. She was diving frequently, then emerged from the water to preen just as before. Nearing the gate on our way back to the car, we came across reed warblers busily flitting through the reeds, their beaks crammed with food for hungry chicks. Nearby, a family of oystercatchers caught our attention.

A friend of mine who lives near the Suffolk coast had recently told me about oystercatcher chicks running around on her driveway, and seeing one here, I couldn’t resist taking a photo. The chick was covered in soft grey and white down, typical of many young waders. It was already beginning to show the species' trademark long, straight bill, though still short and muted in colour compared to the vivid orange-red of the adults.

Oystercatcher chicks are precocial, leaving the nest soon after hatching and follow their parents, and learning how to forage.

We discussed our next move - I'd hoped to try for a Dartford warbler, but with the coastal wind picking up, it seemed unlikely we'd have much luck there. Instead, we decided to head inland to Sandy Down near Brockenhurst, where we’d seen them last year. As we pulled into the car park, we stepped out just in time to witness a Red Arrows flypast, likely on their return from the dramatic display over London for Trooping the Colour, marking King Charles’s official birthday.

Notably, this year’s Red Arrows display featured a 40% blend of sustainable aviation fuel (SAF), derived from waste cooking oil and other bio-based sources, to produce their iconic red, white, and blue smoke trails; an effort to reduce their environmental impact.

We set off across the heathland, spotting silver-studded blue butterflies as we went. They are strongly tied to lowland heath and limestone grasslands and are found in colonies, often small and isolated, with key strong populations located here. They have a fascinating symbiosis with ants where the caterpillars secrete a sugary substance that attracts ants, which then protect them from predictors. In return, the larvae pupate underground in the ants' nests! Adults fly mainly in June and July, staying low and close to the ground, and basking in warm, sunny patches. We spent less time photographing them than last year.

As we approached the spot where we’d seen Dartford warblers last year, Kev paused to examine an orchid, likely a common spotted orchid. In this area, the heath variety is probably the most widespread, and while hybrids do occur here, this one looked fairly typical of the common form. The acidic heathland and boggy ground provide ideal growing conditions.

As we waited, we could see some fallow deer on the opposite hillside - their presence made easier to spot given that one was white - a striking and unusual sight. The white fallow deer are usually not albino, typically having dark eyes, not pink. Their whiteness is due to leucism, a genetic condition that reduces pigment. The deer fed in the trees, occasionally passing through partial clearings giving an opportunity to capture a few photos. Further to the left we could see roe deer sitting low in the scrub, eventually departing but stopping for its photo to be taken.

Our attention was drawn when we heard a soft partial call from a Dartford warbler in front of us. We located it but as I tried to take a photo, it flew back from its perch on some gorse then stopped briefly on another bush before dropping from view. Shortly after it reappeared way off to our right, against the sky - tricky light for photos. Once it dropped from there, we decided time was getting on and we started back to the car, spotting a hobby cutting across the heather.

Almost back to the car a pair of linnets dropped onto a small wet patch in the heather - although they wouldn't be the best photos I took a couple anyway.

We jumped in the car and made for home - another successful outing and a few year ticks.

Year list: 212.