It was long overdue, but finally the time had come to visit family in Ayrshire, Scotland following the festive break - yes, I really do mean overdue! I had postponed the trip, anticipating that I might need to be on hand for another eye hospital appointment for my mum. With that now scheduled for a few months away, I arranged the visit to coincide with school half-term and a couple of days off for my brother - much more convenient, as he wouldn’t need to rise at an ungodly hour or head to bed early for work the next day.
As usual, we set off early and stopped for breakfast in the Lake District before continuing north, arriving around lunchtime. The rest of the day was spent with my brother and mum, after which we checked in to a local hotel for an overnight stay. The next morning, I set an alarm and headed out for a bit of birding. I chose Saltcoats, hoping to catch up with the black guillemots in the harbour. It was still dark when I arrived, with sunrise not until around 7.40am, but that suited me, as I needed to complete my birding and be back at the hotel for breakfast by 9.00am.
I parked and made my way toward the harbour, immediately spotting the flashes of white on the black guillemots’ wings as they floated on the water and perched on the harbour walls and steps. In the colder months, these striking seabirds are easier to see, often staying close to the harbour rather than venturing out to sea. Their glossy black plumage, bold white wing patches, and bright red legs and feet stood out vividly against the grey winter waters. At this time of year, their feeding activity is particularly visible in sheltered spots like Saltcoats harbour, where tidal pools and piers provide abundant prey. The harbour’s mix of calm water, piers, and rocky edges creates the perfect wintering habitat for them. I circled the area and watched as light started to penetrate the darkness.
Juvenile black guillemots in winter are noticeably different from the adults; their plumage is a softer, mottled grey-brown rather than glossy black, with the white wing patch often smaller or less sharply defined. Their legs and feet are paler, a muted pink-red instead of the vivid red seen in adults. Juveniles can appear slightly lanky or awkward on the water, bobbing hesitantly and staying close to adults while learning the best feeding spots along piers, rocks, and tidal pools.
I climbed onto the top of the harbour wall and thought I spotted some razorbills, but they dived beneath the waves before I could get a proper look and were then lost to view. A red-throated diver also passed by at a distance, disappearing again before I had any chance of a photo - though in that light, it would have been a stretch anyway. I continued along the harbour, around the point behind Oscar’s, and down to the rock pools, where I came across my first rock pipit of the year. It hopped up onto the wall, giving me a perfect view and a chance at a photo. By the steps by the playground, I found another, and I knew they wouldn’t be the last I’d see that morning or while on the coast. Six turnstones followed in procession along the water's edge.
I scanned the pools and spotted a curlew busily feeding. Usually quite skittish, these birds tend to take flight as you approach, but this one seemed perfectly content for me to stand and watch as it went about its business.
There were no purple sandpipers in their usual spot, but it didn’t take long to track some down. I eventually counted eight, though they kept their distance, and the encounter didn’t quite match the excitement of more memorable sightings. Perhaps it’s precisely because encounters are occasionally exceptional, that they feel so special when they do occur. Out in one of the pools, a pair of red-breasted mergansers cruised and dived, never approaching closely but near enough for a couple of record shots.
I had to pack up and return to the hotel for a shower and breakfast. Afterwards, Charlotte and I took a walk along the beach and shoreline beyond and naturally, I took my binoculars and camera. I was disappointed to find the burn beside the Seamill Hydro running high and fast, leaving no suitable feeding spots for a dipper. The stones leading down to the sea were also busy with people and dogs, making any chance of seeing one even more unlikely.
We enjoyed the walk, nonetheless, spotting a diver flying offshore, though it was distant and always angled away, making identification impossible. Out on the water were flocks of eider, shags, and cormorants, while a few seals surfaced intermittently, lifting their heads to survey their surroundings. Along the rocks, I found purple sandpipers, dunlin, redshank, ringed plovers, and turnstones picking methodically among the rocks.
The following day I set out earlier, making the longer journey down the coast to Troon, where locals had reported bar-tailed godwits, a species I had yet to encounter this year. I arrived at the car park opposite Morrisons in the dark and waited until there was enough light to venture down onto the beach, noticing three taxi drivers gathered nearby, presumably awaiting their first fares of the day.
By around 7.15–7.30am I was on the sand, scanning the distant waterline for anything of interest. At first there were only the usual gulls, curlews, and oystercatchers. Then I picked out two smaller birds feeding at the water’s edge, strong candidates for my quarry. I had read that there were far fewer black-tailed godwits locally, so chances were I had found what I was hoping for.
I walked across the sand to where they were feeding, only to see them flushed by an incoming great black-backed gull. They lifted off, and I grabbed a quick photo in case it proved to be my only opportunity. Fortunately, they settled again less than 50 metres away, and I soon caught up, watching as they gradually fed their way closer to me.
With the first light of sunrise breaking over the shore, I stood and enjoyed prolonged views as they probed the sand methodically. Eventually they turned and began walking away, but there was no need to follow as I had already had excellent views, even if the photos were only record shots.
I still had a little time before I needed to head back to the hotel, so I moved round to the south side of the barrage below the harbour, where twite have been reported in the past. It’s a species that can be surprisingly difficult to pin down, usually restricted to a small number of favoured coastal sites.
After parking up, I set off along the esplanade, scanning the beach as I went. There were good numbers of rock pipits and a few meadow pipits, while larger waders - oystercatchers and redshanks - fed further out. I continued on, hoping something different might appear and a contender for my target species.
Out on the water I could see eiders, with cormorants and shags moving through, and a handful of purple sandpipers tucked along the lines of seaweed. But nothing suggested twite.
With time slipping away, a small bird dropped onto the sand and began feeding among strands of seaweed. At first glance it gave more of a finch impression than a pipit, prompting a closer look. Unfortunately, it proved to be a single linnet rather than a twite. The bill was greyish rather than the distinct yellow typically shown by twite, even in winter. The streaking, too, was moderate and somewhat diffuse, lacking the heavier, crisper markings that often extend down the flanks on twite. The legs of the twite are noted to appear blackish in the field and never the pale or pink seen in my photos.
Before I managed more than a couple of shots, a dog came charging across the beach, sending many of the birds skyward well before it reached them. Moments later its owner appeared, calling it off the sand and up the slipway. With the area suddenly quiet and nothing else of note to be found, I moved further along the beach. I carried on searching but drew a blank. With a longer drive home ahead of me, I eventually had to call it a day and return to the hotel for breakfast.
Wednesday morning came round quickly, and once again it was dark when I set off for Stevenston Point. The dunes here are among the more significant systems on the Ayrshire coast, continually reshaped by wind and tide. Marram grass binds parts of the sand into firm ridges, while elsewhere the dunes remain open and shifting. The combination of beach, dune and scattered scrub forms a valuable mosaic of habitats along what is otherwise a fairly developed coastline.
From this vantage point I often scan the sea for divers and other seabirds, species that can give a welcome boost to the year list. On arrival I noticed a vehicle parked at the end of the track; it looked as though someone had stayed overnight, so I pulled in a little further back than I normally would.
Stepping out of the car, I was met by a stiff ESE wind of around 18mph and a temperature hovering at just 2°C. It felt far colder than the previous two mornings, the wind biting sharply - properly windswept would be the best way to describe it.
I set up the scope, but at higher magnifications it shuddered in the gusts making viewing, especially out to sea, frustratingly difficult. For much of the time I relied on binoculars instead, only turning to the scope when something warranted a closer inspection.
As the sun edged above the horizon, a soft orange glow spread across the water. In calmer conditions it might have invited a moment of quiet reflection, but the persistent wind rather stole the tranquillity.
A red-throated diver had flown through at distance and been lost before one of the species I'd been hoping for flew closer in, banked, and then flew back out to sea from the bay to my left - a common guillemot. They are a regular sight around UK coasts, though their appearance differs noticeably from the breeding season; their upperparts remain dark brownish-black, their underparts stay white, but the key change is on the head: the summer’s dark hood breaks up, and the cheeks and throat become white, leaving a dark cap and ear patch. At distance, the white face with a dark cap gives them a softer, more contrasty look than in summer.
I scanned both sides of the point, including the beaches and spotted a flock of sanderlings down on the Stevenston side and closer in a mixed flock of purple sandpipers and redshank. They were flying just a few metres above the surface, the flock staying tight, not as fluid or elastic as dunlin, moving as a coordinated unit with quick, shallow wingbeats. When they turned, the flock tilted almost as one, revealing a flash of pale underwing against otherwise dark, sooty upperparts. There was no bold wing bar catching the eye; instead, the impression was muted - subtle tones of grey-brown against the steel-coloured water.
Red-throated divers continued to pass through at intervals of ten to fifteen minutes, and eventually one settled on the water for a brief pause. It was far too distant for photography, but through the scope it was a pleasure to watch. Frustratingly, after its first dive I lost it and was unable to pick it up again. Others flew through and occasionally I tried for a photo.
I resumed scanning. Further out, a concentration of gulls had gathered, circling and dropping onto the sea, hinting at feeding activity below. A few auks suddenly cut across my field of view, and I switched quickly to binoculars to track them as they banked, then raised the camera and managed a handful of frames before they dropped into the swell. The moment they hit the water they disappeared among the waves and couldn’t be relocated, but the brief view had been enough - razorbills, and another of the hoped-for species.
Time had caught up with me once more and I began packing away when a car pulled in beside me. It was a local birder, David Lynn, who had stopped for a chat. We talked about what had been seen at the Point that morning and recently, then drifted onto birds further afield.
I mentioned that I’d had a message from Kev saying he and his wife Karen had been to Inverkeithing and connected with a white-billed diver, before deciding to carry on north to Aviemore for a few days. The weather had turned out far better than forecast at the end of the previous week, and I admitted I’d been toying with the idea of booking a couple of nights up there myself before heading home. Kev reported seeing a couple of crested tits, a species I have yet to see - I was really tempted.
Ten minutes slipped by quickly and, conscious that I was due back at the hotel, with Charlotte waiting, I apologised and made my move.
Later, while at my mum’s, I had a look to see if there was anywhere available to stay near the RSPB Loch Garten reserve and found vacancies at the the Boat Country Inn. The Boat is a four-star Country Inn set in the heart of the Cairngorms National Park, close to the heritage line of the Strathspey Railway. It has a rustic charm, cosy interiors with log fires, free Wi-Fi and, importantly these days, ample parking. That was enough to persuade me, and by Thursday morning, instead of heading south, we were driving north.
Progress was slow. Although the journey should have taken just under three and a half hours, traffic and a fuel stop stretched it to over four. Eventually, we arrived at the car park of the RSPB Loch Garten Reserve, where we had attempted to see crested tits the previous year. The start of January 2025 had brought a cold, unsettled winter across northern Scotland, with wintry conditions lingering from late December. The Met Office and news outlets had issued snow and icy weather warnings throughout the Highlands and around Aviemore, temperatures remained mostly below freezing during the first week, with daytime highs barely above 0°C and nighttime lows dipping several degrees lower. Snow lay thick on the ground, and by 6 January local accumulations had reached around a dozen centimetres and more and on the roads. The deep snow made it impractical to linger for long in the reserve and greatly reduced the likelihood of any crested tits venturing down to the ground.
We arrived to find some packed snow in the car park and along the paths, but otherwise the scene was transformed from a year earlier. As we set off, we passed a couple of birders who told us they had been watching two crested tits near the main Visitor Centre, which gave us fresh hope. The Centre isn’t far from the car park, and soon we were observing chaffinches, coal, great, and blue tits on the feeders, in the trees, and on the ground, while great spotted woodpeckers and nuthatches drummed overhead. After about ten minutes, there it was, a crested tit, and what a striking little bird! It foraged mostly on seeds scattered on the ground rather than joining the tits at the nut feeders, though it would occasionally snatch a dropped peanut and retreat into a favoured bush, where it pecked at either a peanut or a sunflower heart. It would perch on branches, a rope cordoning off the area, or from time to time drop onto the ground and hop around there.
These small, charismatic birds are unmistakable with their black-and-white crest and subtle grey-brown plumage. They’re almost entirely restricted to mature Scots pine forests, and the Highlands’ reserves like RSPB Loch Garten, Abernethy and are resident year-round but can be shy, often preferring to forage quietly on the ground beneath the trees rather than joining the flocks of more boisterous tits at feeders. In winter, though, they sometimes venture closer to human activity, picking up sunflower hearts or peanuts dropped by other birds. Watching a crested tit feeding is a small but unforgettable joy: they’ll dart into a favourite bush, peck at a seed, and then vanish as silently as they appeared.
Timing is key. Early mornings in the cold months, particularly early December to February, often offer the best chances of spotting them. We listened for their unmistakeable high-pitched trilling calls, and our patience was rewarded with amazing views.
We spotted a greater spotted woodpecker feeding high in the canopy, while a couple of treecreepers worked their way up nearby trunks. Eventually, curiosity got the better of the treecreepers, and they descended to forage around the base of a nearby tree and not far from where most of the action was; I’ve never seen a treecreeper feeding on the ground like that before. Meanwhile, a bank vole scuttled nearby, seemingly trying to join in on the action. Occasionally a cone would drop from the trees and land with a thump, scattering the birds - they wouldn't be gone long. The cones were likely detatched by either the siskins or crossbills overhead in the canopy - siskins were calling frequently.
We spent a while around the reserve but eventually decided it was time to make our way to the hotel and check in. That process was smooth and soon we were unpacking as much as we needed to given we would only be here two nights. Out of the window we had great views of the railway station.
The Strathspey Railway runs through the Cairngorms countryside between Aviemore, Boat of Garten and Broomhill, operating along roughly 9½ miles of former Highland Railway track. Much of the route is bordered by forest, river, moorland and open Highland scenery - a glimpse into traditional rail travel in Scotland. From our window we could see the line itself, steam engines hauling traditional carriages, sometimes including a restaurant coach. The standard service runs Aviemore – Boat of Garten – Broomhill and back, with the option to break the journey at intermediate stations. The railway celebrates the history of the old Highland Railway and retains traditional features such as mechanical semaphore signalling and original station buildings.
The restaurant and bar area looked promising for dinner, so I messaged Kev and Karen to see if they’d like to join us. With it being half term in both England and Scotland, the place was busy, so we would need to book an early table. They replied that they had just returned to Aviemore from the Findhorn Valley, where they had seen two golden eagles, and would be delighted to join us. We enjoyed a lovely evening together, and Kev shared details of where they had spotted the eagles; Charlotte and I resolved to try our luck for one the following day.
The following morning, after breakfast, we set off for the Findhorn Valley to try our luck at seeing golden eagle(s). The Findhorn Valley is a spectacular place for birdwatchers, especially those with an eye for raptors. The valley’s mix of open moorland, forested slopes, and winding river corridors creates ideal hunting and nesting grounds for a variety of birds of prey.
Golden eagles are undoubtedly the stars here, with their immense wingspan and commanding presence, spotting one soaring above the hills or perched on a crag would be unforgettable. Autumn and winter are said to be excellent times to see them, as the birds often hunt in the valley’s open areas, making them easier to observe from a distance.
The valley is also home to buzzards and occasional hen harriers, which can be glimpsed quartering the moors in search of prey; peregrine falcons are known to nest on the cliffs.
I'm told that visiting the Findhorn Valley requires patience and a keen eye but Kev and Karen had been fortunate and I hoped we would be too. Early mornings and late afternoons tend to be the best times, as the raptors are most active during these periods. Binoculars and scopes are essential to appreciate the grace and power of these apex predators.
We turned and followed the single-track road along the valley, stopping whenever a large raptor came into view, but each time it turned out to be a buzzard, even when one seemed like it might be something more exciting. Eventually, we reached the end of the track and parked, settling in to watch for a few hours. In terms of raptors, the buzzards were our only companions, but they were entertaining enough. A trio hovered effortlessly on the wind, occasionally diving sharply toward the ground, and one even landed in the long grass out in front of us. We ventured out on a couple of short walks, but drizzle began to fall and clouds descended to shroud the hilltops, forcing us back to the car.
We made our way back to the hotel, pausing along the route to watch mistle thrushes, red-legged partridges, and a few other species - there’s only so much you can reasonably expect from a non-birding wife. We enjoyed a coffee and a scone before I set off for a solo walk in the forest, the weather having brightened a little. Along my path, siskins and coal tits flitted through the trees, but then I was lucky enough to witness a hen capercaillie fly by - a rare honour.
Listening to the usual woodland sounds - rustling leaves, distant calls - time seemed to pause for a moment, and that’s when I caught my first clear glimpse of the capercaillie. Seeing one in flight was a thrilling experience; her sheer size, power, and the suddenness of her appearance made the encounter unforgettable. It was a shame not to see a male, but that would have been asking too much, although hopefully one day. I didn’t manage to take a photo - first I was too stunned, and then trying to focus on the bird amid the trees would have robbed the all-too-brief moment of magic. What a perfect end to my two days in the Highlands!
Year list: 174.
