Into Somerset and South Gloucestershire :: 31 January 2026

Kev @kev07713 and I were weighing up our options for Saturday when we decided on another trip down into Somerset, hoping to finally catch up with the Kentish plover we’d recently missed. There were two clear bonuses to the plan: it would give us the chance to meet up with Karen @hobbylovinglife and Dean @worlebirder, who were also thinking of heading there first thing, and there were several other quality birds in the area that would make the journey worthwhile.

The Kentish plover currently frequenting Burnham-on-Sea has become one of the most remarkable coastal birds in Britain in recent years. Now a scarce and often fleeting visitor to the UK, this individual has defied expectations by returning to the same stretch of Somerset coast winter after winter.

Once a breeding species in southern England, the Kentish plover disappeared as a UK breeding species by the late 1970s, largely due to habitat loss and disturbance. Today it is classed as a rare migrant, with most records involving single birds that stay only briefly. Against that backdrop, the Burnham-on-Sea bird stands out as truly exceptional.

First recorded there in the winter of 2019–20, it settled among the regular wader flocks on the beach and adjacent mudflats, often associating with ringed plover. Rather than moving on, it remained for extended periods, allowing prolonged views and a chance to become familiar with its behaviour and changing plumage. Even more remarkably, it returned in subsequent winters, showing clear site fidelity to Burnham-on-Sea. The story gained wider significance when tracking work later confirmed its continental origins, linking this modest Somerset shoreline with breeding grounds in northern Europe.

We made an early start, arriving on the esplanade shortly after dawn to give ourselves the best possible chance. The conditions weren’t ideal - the tide was falling (high tide at 5.17am, low at 11.51am) and dog walkers were already on the beach - but we were keen to be in position early. We’d skipped breakfast, planning instead to meet Karen and Dean for food once we were done at Burnham.

I pulled up outside the café on the esplanade - Kev and I unloaded our gear. It quickly became apparent that this stretch of parking might incur charges, whereas just 50 metres down the road it was clearly signed as free between October and March, so I moved the car while Kev set up and began scanning the area where the Kentish plover had most recently been reported. By the time I returned he already had the bird, and I jumped onto his scope for a look, just in case. It was only just visible through binoculars, but soon I had it in my own scope and noticed a small group of ringed plovers off to the left, all alert and occasionally preening. There was still little light, but I took a few insurance shots.

Some time later Karen and Dean arrived, delayed by the need to drop Dean’s car and keys at the garage for repairs, and by a stop for breakfast en route. Once the café opened, Kev went in and emerged with sausage baps, which we ate while continuing to watch the bird and scan the beach and Stert Island. On the island a peregrine was devouring what must have been a recently caught bird, while off the point there were large numbers of shelduck and dozens of curlews. A flock of wigeon whirled in and settled on the water, and increasing numbers of grey plover appeared in the distance. The light gradually improved as the sun briefly broke through, although its low angle made it rather harsh on the bird.

Karen wandered off to see if she could get a better angle, and when she returned we discussed our next move. A red-necked grebe at Cheddar Reservoir seemed the obvious choice. Red-necked grebes are migratory waterbirds that breed on northern freshwater lakes and wetlands across much of northern Europe and Asia, moving south in winter. In the UK they are scarce winter visitors and passage migrants, most often recorded along sheltered coastlines between October and March, but they do occasionally turn up on large inland waters, particularly after periods of unsettled weather.

The subspecies most frequently encountered in Britain is the European form, Podiceps grisegena grisegena. Birds of this subspecies breed across northern and eastern Europe and into central Asia, migrating to wintering areas that include the north-west European seaboard. Another subspecies is Podiceps grisegena holbollii, which breeds in North America, Alaska and eastern Siberia and is exceptionally rare in Britain, with only a handful of confirmed records.

There has been some discussion surrounding the Cheddar bird, particularly regarding bill length in comparison with the typical European form, but identification of the American (Holbøll’s) subspecies would require biometric measurements or DNA evidence before it could be considered by the British Birds Rarities Committee (BBRC).

We followed Dean and Karen down to the car park at the end of the reservoir where the grebe had been reported earlier, then climbed up onto the perimeter path, immediately linking up with Dean who already had the bird in his scope. The light was good from this vantage point, but the grebe was at extreme range. I took a quick record shot before following Karen around to the edge, where we would be as close as we could get - Kev and Dean stayed put as they were taking video through their scopes.

The light flanks seem to suggest this bird may not be holboellii - they tend to be darker overall, particularly on the flanks that are often the same or a similar colour as on their back - within the grisegena subspecies, bill length varies normally between individuals and some birds simply sit at the longer-billed end of the distribution. Juveniles also often have proportionally slimmer, sometimes seemingly longer bills compared to head size, which can give a “long-beaked” impression even if absolute length isn’t greater. There is an interesting article on the species here.

The bird was closer now, but largely in silhouette with the brighter light behind it. The priority was to study it carefully through the scope while also trying to salvage the best photographs possible from the conditions. Gradually the grebe began to drift closer and hopes rose of improved views, with Kev, Dean and a few other birders now having joined us. Those hopes were quickly dashed when a paddleboarder passed through, pushing the birds away from the shoreline, and our grebe eventually resumed feeding at distance. As if to mirror the turn of events, rain (tears) began to fall. When it eased slightly, I picked up a black-necked grebe on the far side of the reservoir, which Kev also managed to locate. The red-crested pochards previously reported appeared to have departed, but we did see a pair of goosanders before they too moved on.

Dean and Karen decided to walk round to look for the black-necked grebes, but Kev and I didn’t feel the need for better views, having enjoyed excellent ones at Staines Reservoir recently. After saying our goodbyes, we jumped back in the car and headed for RSPB Ham Wall, where a pair of ring-necked ducks had been reported. Initially a single drake had been present from 19 November, with numbers increasing to two drakes by 13 December. The ducks were on a small pit east of Allotment Drove at Sharpham, and when we arrived to check the area, it dawned on us that this was the same spot where we had seen a Squacco heron back in October 2023. (blog post here).

Ring-necked ducks in the UK are rare but increasingly regular vagrants from North America, with multiple records each year. They’re considered a scarce migrant/scarce visitor, and while their status isn’t as unpredictable as it once was, they still attract interest when found because of their origins and relatively low numbers here - typically there are around 10 or more individuals recorded annually, though totals can be higher in some years. Although called “ring-necked”, the neck ring is subtle; the white bill rings are usually the most reliable field feature.

We checked the pit where the ducks had last been reported and bumped into another birder, a friend of Dean and Karen, who had apparently spotted us as we left Burnham-on-Sea. After a brief chat we split up to search in opposite directions: he headed back towards the original pit, reasoning that the birds often tuck themselves in among the reeds along the water’s edge, while we made for the larger body of water where the Squacco heron had been. Kev set up his scope and, as he raised it, the two drakes were already in view. He asked if I fancied another year tick and I took a look. The birds drifted closer together before swimming off towards the reed edge, where they began diving and feeding along the margins, the stems twitching as they worked their way through underwater and bubbles breaking the surface above them.

We could see siskins flitting in the trees overhead, marsh harriers drifting through, and caught a brief glimpse of a Cetti’s warbler before wandering down the track, where we encountered over 80 mute swans and a group of agitated long-tailed tits in a small tree. As Kev approached, he noted that a bird had dropped out and appeared to be a sparrowhawk, the likely cause of the tits’ alarm. Within a couple of minutes, Kev spotted it fanning its tail in a distant tree, presumably drying its feathers after the recent rain.

Before we packed up, a flock of geese flew through. While I was still watching the sparrowhawk, Kev looked up and spotted a white-fronted goose among them. I raised my camera and took a shot of the flock, counting around 60 birds, all Russian white-fronted geese.

It was time to start heading home, but on the way we made a detour to Oldbury Power Station, where my wife Charlotte and I had seen black redstarts at the end of October last year (report here). We made our way around to the compounds where I have seen these birds previously. After about five minutes, I spotted a female flick up into the sky before dropping from view. I continued scanning and soon saw it again at the base of some railings, only for it to disappear once more. Kev scanned the area but drew a blank, so I took over the scope to focus precisely where I had last seen it. Within a minute, it popped up, and I was able to share it with Kev.

We decided to move onto the track along the estuary wall, hoping for a better view into the compound. Despite a thorough search, we came up empty-handed. Kev returned towards the spot we had watched from earlier, and as he reached the corner to leave the track and climb the slope, he spotted the redstart on the ground between two trailers. He called me over, and I arrived in time to watch it hopping forward, still at a distance. Kev moved on, and as I waited, the bird hopped onto a traffic cone, perching there for a couple of minutes before being flushed by a stonechat and disappearing from view. I returned to join Kev, but we couldn’t relocate it.

It was definitely time to head home, so we returned to the car, stopping briefly in the orchard along the way. There, we spotted a couple of jays, two green woodpeckers, a great spotted woodpecker, fieldfares, redwings, a goldcrest, and a mix of tits and finches. Kev also heard some siskins, though we never managed to locate them.

Another great day out, and it was wonderful to catch up with Karen and Dean again.

Year list: 153.

Day trip to Norfolk :: 29 January 2026

Kev @kev07713 and his wife had been talking about a trip over to Hickling Broad in Norfolk, with the main aim of seeing the black-winged kite, a species Karen had yet to encounter. There were several other sites in the area that could be visited if needed, so it promised to be a good day regardless. The forecast was dry, if decidedly cold. Kev got in touch to ask if I was free to join them and, after checking with my wife Charlotte, I replied to say that we’d both love to come along and make a proper day of it.

We set off early, planning to head straight to Hickling Broad to give ourselves as much time as possible and ensure everyone got to see the bird. Neither Charlotte nor Karen had seen a black-winged kite before, while for Kev and I it would be a welcome year tick. After a quick breakfast stop enroute, we arrived at the Visitor Centre car park at around 8.30am. We’d driven through some mist and fog earlier on, but this had cleared by the time we reached Cambridge. The sky remained grey, though mercifully not heavy or threatening. The car’s temperature gauge read 3.5°C, and a light ESE breeze greeted us as we set out.

Hickling Broad is a 600-hectare National Nature Reserve in Norfolk, managed by the Norfolk Wildlife Trust (NWT). It is the largest of the Norfolk Broads and is a landscape of shallow lakes and wetlands created by medieval peat digging and later flooding. Lying within the Upper Thurne Broads and Marshes, the Broad’s waters are slightly brackish due to their proximity to the coast. A rich mosaic of open water, reedbeds, woodland and grazing marsh makes the reserve one of the most important wetland sites in the region.

The black-winged kite is a striking small raptor, with pale grey and white plumage, bold black shoulder patches and intense forward-facing eyes that give it an almost owlish expression and before 2023, there were no accepted UK records of this species. A bird that appeared briefly in Mid Wales (near Newtown, Powys) in April that year went largely unpublicised, but in July 2023 a black-winged kite was discovered at Hickling Broad, becoming only the second confirmed UK record and the first ever for Norfolk.

The species is typically associated with open grasslands, savannahs and semi-arid habitats in sub-Saharan Africa, tropical Asia, and increasingly south-west Europe, particularly Spain, Portugal and southern France. Although classed globally as Least Concern, it remains an accidental vagrant in the UK. More recently, from late 2025 into early 2026, what is thought to possibly be the same individual, has been repeatedly reported around Hickling Broad and the wider Norfolk Broads, including regular sightings near Stubb Mill Raptor Watchpoint and the Horsey area. During this winter, the bird has stayed for an unusually long period, including appearances at Ludham Bridge, where Kev and I visited in December to catch up with it (report here).

We chose to follow the grass track towards the Raptor Viewing Point, a walk of around 20 minutes, and were treated to plenty of wildlife along the way. A couple of muntjac deer crossed our path, while the surrounding marshes held an assortment of ducks and wildfowl, along with small flocks of tits and finches flitting through the hedgerows.

On reaching the viewpoint, we found another birder already in place. He confirmed that the black-winged kite had been active earlier, hunting over the area to the left, and had recently been seen perched in some distant trees. For the time being, however, the bird was out of sight.

We set up our scopes and began scanning, concentrating on the area where the kite had last been seen but also sweeping the wider vista, keen not to miss it should it drift through unseen. At least four marsh harriers were in view, quartering the reeds and grassland or perched in nearby trees. As time passed, the cold began to creep in, made more noticeable bas we stood quietly scanning with scopes and binoculars.

After around half an hour, I picked up a bird hovering high and distant - it was our bird. I quickly alerted the others, Kev swinging his scope into position while Charlotte and Karen raised their binoculars. Although the kite was clearly visible through the scope, especially once we increased the magnification, it remained frustratingly far off. Photographs were never going to do it justice; the only real hope was that Kev might be able to stay on it long enough to capture some video through his scope.

The species’ hovering hunting style, reminiscent of a kestrel, combined with its elegant, unhurried flight over the open marshes made it a dramatic and compelling sight. Its striking pale and black plumage, vivid red eyes, and agile aerial movements set it apart from any other raptor we’re used to seeing in the UK. Photos are unfortunately only for the record.

We lost sight of the bird, which reappeared two or three times before disappearing completely. After a further 15–20 minutes, Kev eventually managed to pick it up again - now seemingly in the next county, perched in the furthest line of trees from the viewing platform. By this point, photographs weren’t just poor, they were entirely pointless. Several other birders had now joined us on the platform, and we shared the bird's location.

I attempted some video of my own through the scope, clearly something I need to practise if I’m going to improve, while Kev’s effort, though still limited by distance, was noticeably better and at least captured the essence of the bird (see on X here).

We waited in the hope that the bird might drift closer to feed but eventually accepted that we’d had good views through the scopes and there was no sign the bird would come closer any time soon. If we were going to make the most of the day, it was time to move on, ideally somewhere we could also grab some lunch. Sea Palling felt like the obvious choice: close by and holding an Iceland gull that had been present since 20 January.

Before long we were pulling into the car park, quickly clocking a couple of food options - the café in particular looked very tempting. After feeding the meter, we headed beyond the sea wall and along the steps that run parallel to the beach, passing other birders along the way, some heading out and others returning. They confirmed that the Iceland gull was showing, and it wasn’t hard to guess where: a small cluster of scopes and long lenses was visible a few hundred yards along the steps.

We started in that direction but soon paused to watch a group of sanderlings scurrying across the sand. They moved in restless bursts, pausing for barely a heartbeat to probe the wet shoreline before racing on again, their constant motion conveying a sense of urgency and purpose. These were our first of the year, making them a very welcome tick. Beyond the sanderlings, three purple sandpipers were also feeding - distant, but another year tick and a pleasure to watch through the binoculars.

We reached the other birders and set up our scopes. When we asked about the Iceland gull, no one seemed to know its exact location, only that it had been in the bay recently among dozens of other gulls. Strangely, no one appeared to be watching it.

We began scanning, and within a couple of minutes I managed to pick it out from the jumble of juvenile gulls that kept drawing the eye but weren’t what we were looking for. I shared the location, and a few people peered through my scope to confirm the bird - a juvenile itself, apparently.

The Iceland gull is a medium‑sized, pale “white‑winged” gull that draws birders whenever one shows up. Despite its name, it doesn’t breed in Iceland - its breeding range is further west and north, mainly along the rocky Arctic coasts of Greenland and northeast Canada, but the name has stuck. These gulls are scarce but regular winter visitors to Britain and Ireland. During autumn and early winter, many young birds disperse from their Arctic breeding grounds, and a few head south and west - sometimes reaching the UK from November through April. Unlike common coastal gulls such as herring or lesser black‑backed gulls, Iceland gulls tend to occur singly or in very small numbers within mixed gull flocks. Their pale plumage and comparatively graceful appearance make them prized finds.

While scanning further, I also picked out a couple of adult Caspian gulls and another that I couldn’t confidently age - I’m not that skilled at gull identification.

A few moments later, a dog walker appeared, and their off-lead dog charged across the beach, flushing the gulls into the air. While I couldn’t relocate the adult Caspian gulls, I had tracked the Iceland gull across to the far side of the bay, where I watched it preen before settling down to rest on the sand.

A quarter of an hour passed as we watched the gull intermittently lie down or stroll slowly across the distant sand. During these quieter moments, we scanned out to sea and spotted passing red-throated divers, another first of the year for me. Eventually, the Iceland gull moved closer, joining an advance party of black-headed gulls in the nearer bay. There it began stalking up and down, feeding over a patch of what appeared to be seaweed just breaking the surface of the water.

Apparently there is no limit to the number of photographs you can take but I eventually managed to break away from the Iceland gull, and we were then entertained by three purple sandpipers working along the rocky breakwater at the foot of the steps. They worked parallel to us as we walked back along the steps to the slipway from the village to the beach. They crept across the rocks with quiet intent, their slate-grey plumage blending seamlessly with the sea-dark stone. They pecked methodically at the surface, tapping and probing, pausing just long enough to prise a morsel before moving on. Each movement was deliberate and economical - a quick jab of the bill, a half-step sideways, then another peck.

We reached the café we’d passed earlier and decided to stop. The men went for sausage baps, while the ladies opted for French onion soup. Warming up after our time on the beach, we chatted over lunch and discussed where to head next and in the end, we settled on a site that regularly hosts short-eared owls, hoping for one in flight - our earlier encounter this year had involved a bird buried in a bush. There was also the added bonus of a possible barn owl, which Kev and Karen were still missing for the year.

As we approached the site, we passed a couple of cattle egrets and pulled over to watch them at close range - so small when you get up close. With no optics to hand, we simply enjoyed the view through the car window before moving on. Arriving at the car park, we found a small group of birders already in place, clearly thinking along the same lines. We were told that a barn owl had been out on the horizon about five minutes earlier.

We began scanning the landscape, picking up whooper and mute swans, a couple of common cranes, flocks of greylag and Canada geese, and scattered lapwings. After around 30 minutes, a barn owl finally appeared from the left, flying across in front of us towards an area of longer grass. As it reached the broken hedge line separating the two areas, a kestrel burst from a nearby tree and gave chase, forcing the owl to dive for cover into a hole in a bush. The brief interaction was quite spectacular. The kestrel circled once before perching in a tree off to our right, while the barn owl soon re-emerged and began hunting over the scrubbier ground before being lost from view.

We continued to watch the barn owl intermittently at greater distance, passing the time chatting with some of the locals, who were very friendly. One told us that there was more than one short-eared owl in the area, though they weren’t always all visible, and sometimes not at all. He mentioned that one would occasionally drop onto a post off to the left and even showed us a video of just such an encounter. These owls clearly weren’t the only species he'd videoed. He also shared an extraordinary video of three owlets emerging from a tree hole - the sort of footage you suspect you’ll never top. While we waited, we were further entertained by several Chinese water deer feeding in the field in front of us, seemingly everywhere and, in this area at least, appearing to outnumber the muntjacs.

A short while later, the local we’d been chatting with suddenly alerted everyone to a short-eared owl that had dropped onto a post to our left. The bird sat scanning the surrounding fields, slowly rotating its head as it took in the landscape. It remained there for a couple of minutes, long enough for us to fully savour the moment - what a bird.

I rattled off a few photos and then decided to try for some video, opting to shoot handheld, unsure how long the owl might stay. Within thirty seconds it dropped from the post, flew across the fields and disappeared behind a line of trees, not to be seen again.

We waited a little longer, but with the light beginning to fade and a three-plus-hour journey ahead of us, we eventually packed up and said our goodbyes. We stopped for dinner at a pub on the way home, the same one our friends Adrian and Bryan often use when passing through Northampton - a fitting end to another cracking day out in excellent company.

Year list: 149.

Filling in some gaps :: 26 January 2026

I was recently enjoying a lovely time with friends over a weekend, celebrating one of their birthdays. This left Kev free for the weekend, and with his wife away, he headed down to Cornwall to go birding with his sister Karen and her partner Dean, later visiting RSPB Ham Wall. He managed to tick quite a few birds, some we’ve since encountered on our travels, but he also added further species with his wife in Hampshire when they went to see the killdeer.

There are therefore a couple of species that might normally require a special trip, but Kev already has them on his year list. This isn’t usually a problem, as Kev graciously revisits several birds he’s already seen just so I can add them to my year or life list.

Today, I decided it would be a good idea to knock a couple off the list in advance, avoiding the need for extra trips and leaving us free to search for new species for both of us, rather than just me. So, I focused on the American wigeon at Ferry Meadows CP and the two long-staying Slavonian grebes at Whitemoor Haye.

I had a specific plan, so there was no need to be out at the crack of dawn. I waited until my wife was getting up to go play pickleball, still quite early, before setting off. The drive was smooth, and I arrived at Ferry Meadows CP, passing through the camera-controlled (license-recognition) barrier. I made my way to the furthest car park and used the facilities before returning to the car. A birder and his wife were just setting off, and he briefly asked if I was there for the wigeon. He suggested the most likely spot to see it was where the pin-drop on BirdGuides indicated. As they left, I jokingly remarked that it would be nice if they could locate it by the time I arrived.

In the UK the American wigeon is considered a rare but regular vagrant. It doesn’t breed here but individuals are occasionally recorded, especially in autumn and winter. It used to be treated as a rarity deserving formal review, but because of increasing records it is no longer classed as a British Birds Rarity Committee (BBRC) rarity. These ducks normally breed in boreal and sub‑arctic North America and winter across the southern USA and Mexico. Birds that appear in the UK are believed to arrive as a result of trans‑Atlantic vagrancy, often aided by strong westerly winds or weather systems that push them off course during migration.

I walked to the viewpoint to find the couple and another birder scanning the water - a slightly worrying sight, as they were looking in different directions. The lone birder explained that no one had seen the bird yet and that he had spoken to several others who had been searching since early morning - it hadn’t been found. I joined the search, but things didn’t look promising. We worked through the various ducks and geese on and around the water and passed a great white egret standing on the point to our right. It was delightful to watch a group of eight little grebes diving along the edges of the reeds. There were also plenty of common gulls, and I spotted one cormorant of the "Sinensis" sub-species, also known as the “Continental” form due to it being common inland across Europe.

Time passed with no sightings. The couple eventually decided they’d had enough and went to the Centre for a cup of coffee. The other birder, who had already been to Fen Drayton to see a smew, concluded that our luck had run out. I stayed on, continuing to scan the banks. American wigeons are dabbling ducks, feeding mostly at the surface of shallow water rather than diving. Even when actively feeding in the morning, many wigeons rest on banks or grassy areas near water, often tucking their heads under their wings. What worried me was that there were only a handful of Eurasian wigeon on the water, and none were visible on the banks. The footpath around Gunwade Lake runs quite close to the water’s edge, so opportunities for them out of the water were limited.

I waited and noticed a birder on the opposite side of the lake checking his phone. Deciding to do the same, I saw a report on BirdGuides confirming the American visitor just a minute before but in a completely different location, on the far side of Overton Lake in the marshes. I packed up and began making my way to the new area. Along the way, three birders approached and said, “You know what we’re going to ask you, right?” I explained about the update and hurried on, checking the route as I went. The site was new to me, and I didn’t even know the marsh area existed or how to access it.

After a 15–20 minute walk, I reached the viewing platform and arrived with the couple I had met earlier - they were very glad they had stopped for a coffee. Within a minute, we located the American wigeon among its Eurasian cousins and numerous teal. This was a much better location for the bird to feed. As we watched, it cruised along, feeding, gradually moving further away. Eventually it reached the far end of the visible water, and I decided I had been fortunate and had waited patiently. It was time to move on.

I had planned a trip across to Whitemoor Hays, but noted that Eyebrook Reservoir was roughly on the way and decided to make a detour, as up to eight smew had been recorded there lately. I set off, but the journey seemed to take longer than expected given the relatively short as-the-crow-flies distance.

On arrival, I made my way down toward the bay the smew favour each winter, passing through a large pool of water covering the road. As I neared the spot where I planned to park, I came across a couple, both carrying birding gear, walking the other way. I nodded to them, thinking they were relocating to the spot likely to give the best view of the birds. I quickly parked the car in the mud beside the road and checked the opposite side of the island before following them down to the gap in the hedge cut to allow viewing of the bay. While there had been a report of eight smew from this spot earlier in the morning, there were none now - really disappointing.

The couple had moved further along the road, and I followed, hoping for a wider view of the water. When I reached them, they explained that the only smew they had located was on the far side of the water and only visible from where we stood. It was just about visible in the scope but extremely difficult to photograph - I tried anyway. How unlucky was that? Eight birds earlier, and now a single drake at extreme distance.

It was bitterly cold standing there, so the three of us walked back up the road toward the cars. On the way out, I stopped at each pull-in, hoping to locate any others, but had no luck.

It was still quite a drive to my next venue, and I hoped the murky conditions wouldn’t limit my chances of seeing the birds. I needn’t have worried, as the sky seemed to brighten slightly as I got closer. I drove down the last stretch of road to a pull-in where I could turn around and then return to the spot that offered the best view of the Roadside Pit, where the long-staying Slavonian grebes had been recorded since 12 December. As I pulled up, I waved to a chap who was heading back to his car - he must have been checking out the surrounding area.

I jumped out and learned that he hadn’t located any grebes, which was a bit annoying, but I set up my scope and began scanning. I asked him about any merlin, and again he hadn’t seen one.

I lifted my binoculars and scanned the field behind where merlins are sometimes reported, and there it was: a female, sitting in the field. I pointed it out to him, and he managed to get on it, agreeing with my ID. I spun round my scope and reached for my camera to take a few record shots; it was at some distance, and the light was starting to fade. He expressed his gratitude, saying he wouldn’t have seen it without my help.

The merlin is the UK’s smallest falcon, a compact, fast, and agile bird of prey that chase small birds low over the ground at high speed, often surprising prey with sudden bursts of flight. In autumn and winter, the resident population is augmented by migrants, especially from Iceland, so numbers increase in the UK during the colder months. Many of our resident birds breed on upland moorlands (Scotland, northern England, and Wales) move to lower ground, coastal marshes and farmland in winter.

With the excitement over, we turned our attention to locating the Slavonian grebes. After about ten minutes, we spotted one, cruising gracefully among the ducks. At first it stayed in the middle of the pool, but eventually it worked its way to our end, offering a much better viewing position. I managed a few record shots at a distance before packing up my kit for the journey home. All in all, it had been a very successful day of birding.

Year list: 142.