Walberswick, RSPB Boyton Marshes & Minsmere :: 16 August 2025

I had been away on business for a little over a week, and by the time I got back home on Friday I was completely worn out. After dropping my bags, I collapsed into bed for a few hours. I never find napping after travel particularly pleasant, waking up usually leaves me groggy and disoriented, as though the rest has only made things worse. Still, I know it must do me some good in the long run.

Once I’d shaken off the worst of it, I got in touch with Kev @kev07713 to see if there were any birding plans for the weekend. He came back with a suggestion: a trip over to Suffolk to try for the zitting cisticola - known to some as the fan-tailed warbler - and then on to RSPB Boyton Marshes to look for the juvenile black stork that had been reported there. Both species would be excellent birds to see, and the chance of catching up with them was too good to ignore.

Kev mentioned that our friends Adrian Sparrowhawk and Bryan Manston had already been and managed to tick both birds off their lists - it sounded like a perfect plan, though I have to admit that the proposed 4.00 a.m. start gave me a moment’s pause - it’s never easy dragging yourself out of bed at that hour, especially after a draining week away.

Still, the early start would be softened by good company. Kev’s wife Karen @karenheath62, his sister Karen @hobbylovinglife, and her partner Dean @worlebirder would be joining us as well, which meant that even if the birds didn’t show, the day promised to be a fun outing in its own right. Birding trips are always about more than just the species seen, they’re about the camaraderie, the shared anticipation, and the stories that come out of the journey itself. I wouldn’t be the only one running on limited sleep - Karen and Dean were making the drive up from Weston-super-Mare to meet Kev and Karen before swinging by to collect me.

We broke the journey with a stop for breakfast, then set off again, with only about forty-five minutes left to cover before reaching our first destination. I’d spent holidays in that part of Suffolk before, but as far as I could recall, I’d never actually ventured down onto the beach at Walberswick itself.

When we arrived, we pulled into the car park, sorted out the parking, and then set off on foot. The path led us out toward the beach, where we followed the edge for about a kilometre. In the distance, we could already make out a small cluster of birders gathered in position, always a reassuring sign that we were heading in the right direction. On the way, we picked out a ruddy shelduck, standing out boldly beside two avocets. They are a striking bird, rich orange in the morning light, and especially pleasing given that five had been reported in the area the previous day. A nice bonus before we’d even arrived at the target bird - whether wild, feral, or escapees, their appearance always adds a special highlight to any birding trip. Later we would see our bird out on the water.

The zitting cisticola always seems more at home in southern Europe than on the Suffolk coast and for me, it was a species I’d only read about in bird reports, so the chance to see one in the UK was something I was keen not to miss. In Britain and Ireland, zitting cisticola remains a very rare visitor with the first national record in Norfolk in 1976 and since then according to the BTO, there have been fewer than ten records in total.

With multiple singing males on the southeast coast, combined with documented range expansion across continental Europe, I'd read this makes it quite plausible that the zitting cisticola could be the next species to establish a breeding presence in the UK mainland. Especially in grassland and wetland habitats susceptible to climate-related shifts, this pattern of northward movement fits both ecological projections and current bird-record trends.

The zitting cisticola is a small, brown, streak-backed warbler notable for its broad, white-tipped tail, which it flicks with constant rhythm. During the breeding season, males perform an erratic zigzag or pendulum-like flight display while emitting rapid, repetitive "zit-zit-zit" calls - a behaviour that inspired its name.

We made our way along the sandy footpath, the dunes and marram grass opening up in front of us as the North Sea came into view. As we joined the group, the atmosphere had that familiar mix of excitement and quiet patience. A few whispered conversations passed along the line - “It just dropped into the grass ... should be showing again soon ...” - and then, right on cue, the cisticola flicked up into the air, although none of us managed to get eyes on it - typical - we'd have to wait for the next emergence.

Eventually it worked left along the reeds, again unseen by all but Karen, Kev's sister. However, on the next flight I got on it and watched it right along the face of the reeds - I was so intent on watching it I forgot to try to take a photo. Its flight was unmistakable: bouncing on quick, clipped wingbeats before parachuting down again into the long grasses, its tail fanned out just enough to show how it earned its name.

We were perched on the slope, trying to balance ourselves on smooth, loose stones that had a habit of giving way beneath us. Every so often we’d slide down a foot or so before managing to steady ourselves again. Dean found this especially unnerving and, after a short while, decided he’d had enough - he shifted further along the track to firmer ground, with Karen soon following his lead. I sat next to a chap that it turns out I follow on X, and he follows me - Mike @dogdoughty - it was good to put a face to a name and have a chat.

Our bird was in the air again and it wasn’t a prolonged view, but it was enough - an unmistakable little silhouette against the Suffolk sky, a bird from another climate, here on the British east coast. However fleeting the view, it was exactly why these early starts and long drives are always worth it.

Over the course of the morning, we managed to see the bird about half a dozen times. On one occasion, though, there was a moment of real confusion among the assembled birders. Half the crowd was pointing and calling in one direction, while the other half were gesturing excitedly the opposite way. For a few seconds it almost felt as though two birds must be present, though of course we knew that wasn’t the case ... it was simply the cisticola doing what it does best: vanishing into the grass one moment and reappearing in an entirely different spot the next - wasn't it?

At one point I managed to line it up in my camera’s viewfinder. My heart was racing, finger poised, but before I could get the focus to lock the bird dropped back into cover and my chance was gone. Kev fared a little better and he managed to fire off a frame or two, and although distant and hazy, they at least served as a record shot.

What makes the sighting all the more remarkable is the news that’s since come out. This week it has been confirmed that not only were there two adult zitting cisticolas present at Walberswick, but also at least three juveniles. That means this is now officially recognised as the first confirmed breeding record for the UK.

Zitting cisticola, courtesy and copyright Kevin Heath.

It soon seemed clear that we weren’t going to get much better views of the bird, and with only a handful of distant photos appearing on social media, we decided it was time to move on. We had other plans for the day, after all. As we made our way back toward the car, a line of common terns passed close along the shore, many of them juveniles. They zipped by at speed, then turned to battle their way back against the wind.

Out on the water was a chap foiling on a board - this involves riding a board that has a hydrofoil mounted underneath, extending into the water. As the board gains speed the foil generates lift, raising the board clear of the surface. This creates the sensation of flying silently above the water with reduced drag and an incredibly smooth ride. I'm not sure but I think this board had built-in electric motors and batteries that allowed the rider to foil without wind or waves - essentially a self-propelled flying surfboard.

We reached the car and quickly set the SatNav for our next target. Rather than heading for the official RSPB Boyton Marshes car park, we aimed for a spot a little further along, closer to where the juvenile black stork had been reported earlier in the day. When we arrived, a handful of cars were already parked up, but luckily there was one space right at the front.

Kev swung the car around to reverse in but immediately hit trouble. The ground was soft and sandy, the wheels digging in with little progress - one of those moments where you wonder if you’re about to be stranded - we could push. The driver of the car behind us was busy sorting gear out of his boot, and Kev politely asked if he wouldn’t mind reversing back a little so we could edge onto firmer ground. He happily obliged, and with a bit of manoeuvring we were safely parked.

Naturally, we stopped to chat, hoping for news. What he told us wasn’t encouraging: the stork had flown off and was currently missing in action. His wife had gone on ahead to see if she could relocate it, but so far there was no sign. Just as he finished speaking, though, his wife reappeared and almost at the same moment another birder passed by, reporting that the bird had been re-found less than ten minutes’ walk from where we stood. Relief all round.

It was then that our new acquaintance admitted he was feeling both pleased and frustrated. He’d driven over two hours to get here, but in his excitement had forgotten to put a memory card in his camera. No card, no photos. I asked what format he used. “SD” he replied - as luck would have it, I had my spare camera in the car, along with a couple of extra SD cards. I fetched one and handed it over so he could at least capture a few shots of the stork when we found it. I told him to keep it, but he insisted on taking my address so he could post it back.

As we got talking further, the birding world proved its usual small place: it turned out we already followed each other on X (Twitter). His name was Neil Hilton @neilthilton - and takes some great photos. We all set off.

We followed the track until it opened out beyond the trees, then veered right, keeping an eye out for the half-hidden stile. From there we had our first clear view of the pool, and there it was, the black stork, with a couple of birders already watching from the far bank. We crossed over to join them and soon had the bird in our scopes: roosting quietly on the bank, head tucked tightly into its chest, breast feathers fluffed out.

The black stork is a large, elegant stork, similar in size to the white stork but slimmer and darker, with long legs and a straight, pointed bill. Unlike adults, which show glossy black with green and purple sheen and pure white underparts, juveniles are much duller and browner overall. In juveniles, the bill is dull grey-brown or greenish, lacking the bright red-orange tones of adults. The breast feathers of a juvenile often appear slightly looser, with a “fluffed” look when the bird is at rest.

We spent some time quietly watching, waiting for any sign of movement. Every now and then the stork would rouse itself slightly to preen, carefully smoothing and arranging its feathers. At one point it ambled down to the water’s edge for a drink, an amusing reminder that, yes, it really did have two legs! After a minute or two of careful grooming, it returned to its resting posture, tucking its head back against its breast and drifting once more into slumber, opening eyes for a peek every now and then.

We picked our way carefully through the bracken and nettles, trying to find a good angle for photos - Dean bore the brunt of the experience, suffering countless stings as the plants brushed against his bare legs. Shorts had clearly been a tactical error. Just as we were navigating this mini obstacle course, Kev spotted a wasp spider nearby. Instantly, everyone’s attention shifted; the previously sleeping stork was momentarily forgotten as we admired the striking black-and-yellow orb weaver, cameras ready and phone lenses trained on its web. First recorded in Britain in 1922 at Rye, East Sussex, the wasp spider has since spread across southern England, including areas like Kent, Hampshire, and Dorset. Recent records indicate its continued expansion into central regions. Despite their formidable appearance, these spiders are harmless to humans, are non-aggressive and pose no threat.

The wasp spider is a striking orb-weaving spider native to southern Europe, which has been gradually expanding its range northwards and is now established in parts of southern and central England. The female spiders are notably large, with body lengths ranging from 14 to 22 mm and are easily identifiable by their bold black and yellow striped abdomen, reminiscent of a wasp's colouration, which serves as a warning to potential predators. The males are significantly smaller, measuring about 4.5 mm in body length, and are less conspicuously coloured.

Their diet primarily consists of grasshoppers, and other small insects - once prey is ensnared in the web, the spider wraps it in silk and delivers a venomous bite to immobilise it. Bumblebees can fall prey to wasp spiders if they collide with the orb web. While wasp spiders primarily hunt smaller, lighter insects, a bumblebee unlucky enough to hit the web can become entangled.

We paused considering our next move and eventually decided on a trip back up to RSPB Minsmere. On the short walk back to the car, a small group of fallow deer caught our eye on the hillside. We stopped for a couple of minutes, watching them graze and occasionally lift their heads, before they suddenly bounded away, disappearing gracefully into the trees.

We arrived at RSPB Minsmere and discovered that the two Karens and Kev hadn't visited here before. We stopped in the Visitor Centre for coffee/tea and a cake before heading onto the reserve - we had limited time before we'd need to make our way back to Banbury and so after looking around the habitat near the Centre made our way to the North Hide and started scanning.

We scanned the pools carefully and picked out a few waders - a curlew sandpiper, a common sandpiper, and a couple of spotted redshanks - before Kev suddenly raised the alert: he had a bittern in his scope. Instantly, our attention shifted. Another couple in the hide, who had previously been quietly observing, suddenly became animated and came across to join us. The man explained that he had been visiting the reserve for decades, yet this was the very first time he would have the chance to see a bittern. His French wife sat beside him, and together they enjoyed the fleeting glimpses, soaking in every moment.

The bittern was elusive, moving in and out of view, often partially obscured by reeds swaying in the breeze. Kev, having already spotted it, graciously gave everyone else the space to enjoy the sight. Finally, he managed to reposition himself and had the chance to watch the bird as it reappeared, then slipped silently back into the dense reeds.

Time was marching on and now it would be at best 8.30pm before we got home - Karen and Dean would then drive home, a further couple of hours. As we passed the Visitor Centre Kev noticed a woman taking photos around a buddleia - he surmised that she had found a hummingbird hawk moth - he was correct. She said she was leaving so Karen and I stopped to capture a few photos of our own. It is rapid and agile, hovering like a hummingbird while feeding, beating its wings extremely fast, often creating a humming sound. It is commonly found in southern England but increasingly recorded further north during warm summers - some migrate from southern Europe to the UK in summer - they are rarely bothered by humans and can be observed close up.

We set off for home, drifting in and out of sleep on the return journey - Kev making the long journey home as our driver.

Year list: 230.

RSPB Snettisham :: 02 August 2025

Looking at our options, Kev @kev07713 and I quickly agreed that the best plan was to head east towards the Norfolk coast and spend the day at RSPB Snettisham. The reserve had been attracting a fair bit of attention recently thanks to several interesting waders being reported, including pectoral sandpiper, white-rumped sandpiper, and curlew sandpiper. Of the three, the white-rumped was always going to be more of a gamble as sightings had tailed off for a day or two, which usually means it had either moved further along the coast or was feeding out of sight somewhere on the vast mudflats. Still, birding is often about the chase as much as the reward, and we knew that Snettisham always delivers plenty to see, whether or not the rarities put in an appearance.

RSPB Snettisham is a truly spectacular reserve sitting on the edge of The Wash, one of the UK’s most important estuaries for wintering and passage birds. Twice a day, when the tide pushes thousands of waders off the mudflats and into the lagoons, the place comes alive in a way that few reserves can match. Knot, dunlin, oystercatcher, and bar-tailed godwits gather in vast numbers, swirling in dense flocks that seem to shape-shift in unison. It’s a spectacle that has rightly earned the site its reputation as one of the country’s birding highlights, particularly during the famed autumn “whirling wader” events. Unfortunately, the tide would be under 6 meters and too low to have a really spectacular display.

Even without the rarities, the promise of seeing that sheer abundance was enough to make the trip worthwhile. Add to that the possibility of catching up with a scarce American sandpiper or two, and it felt like an opportunity too good to miss. Whether we connected with the target birds or not, we were certain of a memorable day on the marshes.

We pulled into the car park and gathered our gear, ready for the familiar but deceptively long walk out to the reserve. No matter how many times you do it, the stretch always seems further than you remember, though that extra distance often brings its own surprises. Part of me was quietly hoping we might chance upon a turtle dove along the way, as they have been known to linger in this area during summer, their soft purring call such a rare sound now in Britain. Sadly, it wasn’t to be on this occasion.

What we did get, however, was something altogether unexpected. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the elegant white shape of a spoonbill gliding across the sky, following the river course, its long neck outstretched and unmistakable bill catching the light. Before we’d even finished remarking on the sighting, a second bird appeared, this time passing almost directly overhead, close enough for us to admire the details of its slow, deliberate wingbeats. An uplifting start to the day.

As we pressed on, the hedgerows and scrub lining the path were busy with smaller birds. Whitethroats flitted about, pausing briefly on the tops of brambles to deliver their scratchy song, while sedge warblers rattled away unseen in the reedier patches. Here and there, other “little brown jobs” (LBJs) darted from bush to bush, just quick glimpses of movement that keep you scanning and listening in case something more unusual pops up. It was a reminder that at Snettisham, even the approach to the lagoons can be rich with life if you take the time to look and listen.

As we reached the climb up from the edge of the river, our attention was drawn to a pair of terns quartering the river. They moved with that characteristic buoyancy, wings beating steadily as they hovered and then dived sharply into the surface in pursuit of fish. For a moment, I let myself hope that one of them might turn out to be something a little different - perhaps an Arctic tern to add to my year list.

In the end, the clean lines and bright red bills revealed them to be common terns. No disappointment, though - they remain a delight to watch and it’s hard not to admire their precision as they work the shallows. There’s something about terns that always lifts the mood: the way they seem perfectly at home skimming the water’s surface. Even if they weren’t the rarity I’d hoped for, they added another welcome note to the day list.

Looking out towards the sea, our eyes were drawn to a large flock of waders rising and twisting against the grey sky. The whole mass moved as one, a cloud that shifted shape in an instant. At this distance, it was impossible to pick out individual species, but experience told us what we were watching: a swirling mix that would almost certainly include red knot, black-tailed godwits, and dunlin.

These aerial ballets are always spellbinding, and part of the magic lies in knowing that each bird is responding instinctively to the movement of those around it, tiny adjustments creating one vast synchronised display. We paused briefly, even though we knew we’d enjoy closer views once we made it to the sea wall. There, with luck, we’d be able to watch the flocks settle onto the mudflats or be pushed inland by the rising tide, turning distant silhouettes into a varied collection of waders.

Just before we reached the turn leading onto the sea wall, another species caught our attention. A group of Egyptian geese were gathered along the bank that bordered the water, their striking chestnut eye patches and bold plumage standing out against the grey sky reflections of the water. A few more drifted lazily across the surface, paddling in unhurried circles as though entirely at ease.

Though not native, these birds have become a familiar sight in parts of Norfolk and further afield, their numbers steadily increasing over recent years. There’s something slightly exotic about them, with their upright posture and loud, honking calls, a reminder of their origins along the Nile. While they don’t stir the excitement of a rarity, they add a hint of the exotic.

We paused for a moment to chat with a birder stationed off to our right - he confirmed that he’d managed to pick out the pectoral sandpiper earlier from the Rotary Hide. That was encouraging news, exactly what we wanted to hear. A pec would be a new bird for the year, and while it can be a slippery customer, just knowing it had been seen nearby gave us hope.

From the hide, we trained our scopes across the pool, scanning intently for anything out of the ordinary. At first, though, every promising shape resolved itself into yet another dunlin. One, then another, then another - plenty to sift through but none bearing the crisp breast band of our target bird. The couple sharing the hide with us reassured us that we weren’t chasing shadows; they too had seen the pec earlier, first on a distant spit and later working the edge of a nearby island. Encouraged, we continued scanning the flocks with patience and hope.

Meanwhile, movement behind us kept drawing my eyes away from the islands. A large gathering of waders congregated in a large body, made up of black-tailed godwits and red knot, two of the signature species of The Wash, and together they created an extraordinary spectacle. Likely thousands of birds compressed into a tight group - a classic defensive behaviour of waders: safety in numbers, each bird shielded by the mass, confusing potential predators.

A little while later, a couple more birders drifted into the hide to join the search. One of them turned out to be a familiar face - Des, a regular presence along the east coast and someone we’ve bumped into on more than one occasion - at Frampton, Hunstanton amongst others. There’s always a certain camaraderie when birders gather like this: seeing familiar faces.

We continued to work our way steadily through the waders, scoping every dunlin, double-checking every redshank, lingering over anything that seemed slightly out of place. Then, after a spell of silence, Des spoke up. He thought he had it - the pectoral sandpiper - picked out at long range. Even with a scope, the view was distant, but it was enough to be confident.

The bird itself, when you finally lock onto one, is subtle yet distinctive. About the size of a dunlin but a touch longer and slimmer, with neatly scalloped upperparts and, most importantly, a sharp, dark pectoral band across the chest that gives the species its name. This band cuts cleanly into the white belly below, creating a contrast that makes the bird look crisply marked compared with its neighbours.

Pectoral sandpipers breed in the Arctic tundra of North America and Siberia, but every autumn a scattering of them crosses the Atlantic to turn up on our shores, a long-distance migrant blown off course - spotting one is always a thrill.

Even though the view was far from perfect, the knowledge that we had connected with this scarce visitor was satisfying. We watched hoping for a closer look, but content at least that our patience had paid off.

A little nearer to the hide, we picked out a small group of spotted redshanks gathered quietly in the water. Most of them were dozing, bills tucked neatly into their feathers, their reflections rippling faintly on the surface. A few birds stirred now and then to preen, stretching their wings or carefully working their bills through their plumage in slow, deliberate movements.

By this stage in the year, they had mostly slipped back into their winter plumage, the dramatic black-and-white finery of summer giving way to the more subdued, silvery-grey tones that make them easy to confuse at a glance with common redshanks. Still, their slimmer build, longer legs, and the elegant sweep of their needle-fine bills gave them a certain poise, and the occasional flash of white underwing when one shifted position was enough to mark them out. While a handful winter in the UK, most are just passing through on migration.

Before long we left the hide behind and wandered over to one of the benches that offered a broad view across the mudflats, accompanied by Des. From here we could watch the incoming tide slowly swallowing the sandbanks, pushing the waders ever closer. It’s one of the joys of Snettisham - the way the landscape transforms hour by hour, and with it the behaviour of the birds.

Scanning the distant waders, I picked out my first grey plovers of the year. They were far too distant for a photograph, but their bold markings stood out clearly through the scope. Still holding onto their summer plumage, they looked magnificent - black faces and bellies framed by striking white borders, contrasting sharply with the silver-grey of their backs.

Looking back over the hide we saw a raptor being mobbed by terns - it turned out to be a kestrel, although initially we thought it might have been a hobby. We saw at least seven more across on the left side of the estuary.

The tide continued its steady advance, though it soon became clear that the water would never quite reach us where we were stationed. Instead, it would linger frustratingly far out, leaving the birds just beyond the range for any close views. Even so, the shifting waterline had its effect.

As the mudflats gradually disappeared, the waders were forced to move, edging along the shore and every so often the entire flock would lift, bursting into the air as one, wheeling and twisting against the light before settling again.

Even at a distance, the sight of so many birds responding instinctively to the rhythm of the tide was spectacular. The lack of close views didn’t diminish the sense of drama.

We began working our way back along the track, eyes scanning the mudflats and shallow pools for any sign of a curlew sandpiper or a little stint, both of which had been reported in the area recently. At the first of the buildings along the wall, we paused, spotting a few sandwich terns with the more familiar common terns. Among the various gulls resting along the water’s edge were a few Mediterranean gulls mingling with black-headed, herring, great black-backed, and lesser black-backed gulls - plenty to keep the eyes busy.

Then, out in front of us, I caught a flash of movement: a curlew sandpiper, unmistakable with its compact frame and striking, slightly downcurved bill. Before I could get more than a brief look, it slipped quietly into a gully, disappearing from view but not before I got Des and Kev on it. A little later, our persistence was rewarded again when another birder spotted one further out along the shallows, taking advantage of the tide here having advanced a little further. It moved deliberately, probing the wet sand and shallow water with its bill, giving just enough of a view to admire the pale underparts, warmer reddish tones on the back, and the elegant, slightly hunched posture that distinguishes this small wader. Soon enough it vanished again.

From behind us came the soft, familiar purring call of a turtle dove. After a few moments of careful scanning, we finally picked it out perched atop a tall tree. It was distant, but seeing one so clearly was a reminder that these gentle birds are still managing to hold their own here, despite the challenges they face nationally.

Des said he was off home, and it was time for us to do the same. No sign of the white-rumped sandpiper but we had enjoyed a great day and noted at least 66 species.

Year list: 227.

WWT Slimbridge :: 26 July 2025

Looking around there didn't seem to be much around that we might travel to, at least not within easy reach. Much like Frampton Marsh and Lymington you can never have a bad day at WWT Slimbridge, so we decided to head there, arriving just as the members’ gate opened, comfortably ahead of the general public. At the entrance we were greeted by a young girl volunteering as a warden, noting down membership numbers. Her mother remarked on how impressed she was that her daughter not only had the interest, but also the enthusiasm to get up so early for it.

From that entry point it made sense to follow the track past the Rushy Hide towards the Estuary Tower Hide, which overlooks the Dumbles. There had been a report of a Caspian tern here the day before, so you never know what might turn up.

At the Rushy hide, there was quite a change since our last visit. Avocet numbers had dropped sharply, presumably because they’d nested and the young had fledged, probably moving to other parts of the reserve. I was keeping a species tally, carefully working through the ducks in search of teal - eventually, I did find a couple. Nearby, a black swan was sleeping, while redshank, green sandpipers, and several little ringed plovers with their young busily scuttled along the water’s edge.

The day before, a female garganey had been reported from the area to the left of the Robbie Garnett Hide. We were delighted when another birder picked it out - distant, but right in front of us. It certainly hadn’t been there earlier, as I had thoroughly scanned all the ducks while searching for teal. It must have dropped in while we were scanning, hidden among the crowd. Over the following days it would prove to be quite mobile, sometimes seen on the Tack Piece, “calling in” before flying back over the hedge.

The garganey is a small dabbling duck, similar in build to teal, and one of the rarest but regular summer visitors. A migratory species, it breeds in parts of Europe and western Asia, arriving in March, then winters in sub-Saharan Africa and southern Asia from August onwards. A female appearing at Slimbridge in late July might be a failed breeder leaving early, a dispersing post-breeder seeking rich feeding before migration, or a migrant from continental Europe pausing on its journey. Slimbridge provides ideal conditions for moulting birds: safe water, plentiful food along the margins, and limited disturbance.

The female, though far subtler than the strikingly patterned male with his bold white head stripe, is beautifully adapted to her wetland environment. Garganey are often secretive, foraging quietly in shallow margins or hidden among vegetation—unless, of course, they’re fast asleep in the reeds, which is how I’ve often encountered them.

After we'd chatted with others in the hide, we looked back to see our bird had vanished, presumably the small duck flying off to the left.

We stopped briefly at the Martin Smith hide, but with little in view we moved on to the Robbie Garnett hide. Here, a dozen or so green sandpipers were feeding close by, a few showing particularly well right in front of the hide. Some waded in the water, their movements captured beautifully in the reflections. Across the far bank a spoonbill was, as ever, fast asleep. A lone male ruff worked along the water’s edge, first feeding to the right and then drifting left. While scanning to count the green sandpipers, I noticed one bird that stood out - “one of these things is not like the others.” It was, in fact, a wood sandpiper.

Wood sandpipers are most frequently encountered during spring passage (April–May) and again on autumn migration (July–September). Late July through August marks their peak return passage, as birds travel south after breeding in northern Europe and Asia. In Britain the annual total usually numbers only in the low hundreds, with most sightings involving single birds, though occasionally several may gather at a good site.

This individual was feeding at some distance but eventually flew in to about halfway across the pool, allowing for a slightly better view and photograph.

To our amazement, the spoonbill eventually stirred from its sleep and with a stretch and a shake of its head, it began to preen, giving us a chance to see it in all its elegance. Its plumage looked dazzlingly white and the bird’s long, spatulate bill was shown off beautifully as it worked methodically through its feathers. An exotic visitor more reminiscent of a Mediterranean lagoon than a Gloucestershire wetland.

This small interlude was lovely to watch, as spoonbills often appear motionless for hours at a time. Their routine of sleeping and preening is in fact a reflection of their feeding ecology - they tend to feed intensively at dawn and dusk, sweeping their distinctive bills side to side through shallow water, then spend much of the day resting to conserve energy. In the UK they are still relatively scarce, though their numbers are slowly increasing, with breeding colonies now established in a handful of sites.

After its brief display the bird soon reverted to type, tucking its bill back beneath its wing and sinking once more into sleep.

From the next hide we located a great white egret, standing almost motionless in the shallows. Its large size and striking white plumage made it easy to pick out, but the bird hardly moved during the time we watched it. This still, patient behaviour is typical of the species, which will often wait for long periods before stalking and striking quickly at passing fish or amphibians. Great white egrets are becoming more frequent sightings and are now breeding in a few areas, so encounters like this are no longer quite the rarity they once were.

In front of the hide, activity was provided by a family of reed warblers moving rapidly through the reedbed. The adults worked their way among the stems, searching for insects, while the juveniles followed, less agile but clearly learning quickly. Their constant movement gave us an excellent chance to watch them at close quarters, a good example of the busy, hidden life that thrives in reedbeds through the summer.

We made our way up into the Estuary Tower and spent some time scanning the view, hoping for a glimpse of the Caspian tern reported the previous day, or perhaps something interesting passing over the Tack Piece or the Dumbles. Despite repeated checks with the scope, the scene remained fairly quiet. On the slope down to the water’s edge we noted groups of gulls, curlew, and dunlin, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out. With little else showing, we decided to retrace our steps and head across to the Zeiss Hide.

From there we picked up a pair of common cranes off to our left, feeding in the distance. These birds have become a welcome feature at Slimbridge in recent years, thanks to the reintroduction programme. Looking further out, a marsh harrier came into view, flying steadily across the reserve. It was immediately mobbed by a variety of smaller species as it passed through. Once the raptor had gone, many of the disturbed birds filtered back down to the pools. Among them we picked out a leucistic lapwing, strikingly pale compared with the rest of the flock and an unusual sight.

From here we could also see more than one hundred avocets – so this is where they were.

A sudden burst of commotion broke out when news came through that the Caspian tern had reappeared. The message circulated quickly via the local WhatsApp birding group, BirdGuides, and even by a telephone call. Kev and I, along with a pair of other birders, set off at pace back towards the Estuary Tower Hide - ironically, we had managed to place ourselves about as far from the bird as it was possible to be on the reserve.

Partway there, however, another update came through: the tern had been flushed by grazing cattle from the field where it had been resting and had vanished. The birders ahead of us relayed the disappointing news, but we continued on regardless, hoping it might return.

At the Estuary Tower Hide, a small crowd had gathered, all scanning the estuary in anticipation. More people arrived in quick succession, word clearly travelling fast. Despite our collective effort, the tern never showed again, though it was reported once more the following day.

While the tern stayed away, there was still plenty of activity on the Dumbles. Increasing numbers of common cranes began to drop in, eventually building to around twelve birds, loosely gathered in pairs. As we watched the cranes settle, the black swan flew past, presumably returning from feeding elsewhere.

We headed back to the Visitor Centre for a bite to eat and a much-needed coffee before setting off again, this time towards the Discovery Hide. A Tundra bean goose had been reported from there earlier in the morning, and we were keen to try our luck.

On the way, however, we met several birders coming in the opposite direction, all of whom reported that the goose had disappeared. This news was confirmed as soon as we arrived at the hide - no sign of the bird. We spent some time scanning, but at first all we could pick out were greylags scattered across the pools and grazing areas. Still, the atmosphere in the hide was good, with birders chatting.

Then, just as our attention began to drift, Kev suddenly pointed and called out. There, walking steadily along the strip of land between two bodies of water, was our goose. At last, the Tundra bean goose had revealed itself, giving us the views we had been waiting for.

They breed in the Russian Arctic tundra and migrate mainly to western and central Europe; the UK is on the edge of their regular wintering range. Generally darker in plumage than greylags, with a more compact build - the bill is mostly dark with a limited orange band near the middle.

Time was marching on, and we returned to the Rushy hide to see what might be showing there, finding that the spoonbill must have relocated - again initially asleep, preening, and then going back to sleep after it had walked at most 5 metres.

Green sandpipers sometimes flatten themselves, lying low in shallow water when a raptor passes overhead - this “freeze” behaviour is a well-known anti-predator response. However, on hot days, green sandpipers (like many waders) will sometimes settle low in very shallow water or damp mud to cool off. The water can help regulate temperature, especially in mid-summer - this seemed to be what was happening.

A ruff fed in the shallows but again some distance from us.

On our way back to the car we passed through the Slimbridge collection and were drawn to the enclosure holding masked lapwings and southern screamers, two striking species sharing the same space. We stepped inside the walk-through area just as one of the lapwings began bathing in the pool, splashing vigorously before pausing to shake out its wings.

Masked lapwings, also known as spur-winged plovers, are native to Australia and New Guinea. They are bold, noisy birds, often highly territorial, and are well known for defending their nests with loud calls and even aerial attacks on intruders. Their distinctive yellow wattles and sharp wing spurs give them a unique appearance among lapwings.

The southern screamer by contrast, is a large South American wetland bird, more goose-like in size and stature. Despite its bulky build, it belongs to the same order as ducks and geese, though it looks quite different. Its name comes from its extraordinarily loud, far-carrying call, which can be heard over long distances in its native range. At close quarters its size and unusual build make it particularly impressive.

Together in the same pen, the two species made an odd but fascinating pairing - one small and sharp, the other large and ungainly but both offering a glimpse of wetland life from very different parts of the world.

Year list: 222.