A weekend catching up with a few spring arrivals :: 18/19 April 2026

There had been a fair amount of travelling over the past week, so Kev and I began the weekend’s birding with something closer to home, heading into Northamptonshire. There had been regular reports of a whimbrel at Clifford Hill, a site I had never visited before and one Kev had only been to once, and not for birding. Armed with his directions on where to park, we made for the car park on the western side of the main waterbody.

Clifford Hill Country Park forms part of the Upper Nene Valley Gravel Pits, a mosaic of lakes, reedbeds, wet grassland and footpaths created from former gravel workings. Paths circle the pools, and our target bird had been reported regularly along the northern shore of the main pit, according to the Northants Birding WhatsApp group.

We followed the track from the car park to the water’s edge, where a decision had to be made: north side or south? Kev mentioned that on his previous visit he had walked the southern route and seen a couple of yellow wagtails, so we opted to go that way, reasoning there might be more to record while still allowing views across to the northern shore.

Just as we turned right, we checked the WhatsApp group and saw that “Pete” had posted moments earlier that the whimbrel was still present - a relief - along with a list of other species he had seen, though without updating the bird’s location.

Sedge warblers called from all directions, while sand martin and the odd swallow hawked over the water and surrounding fields. Along the southern stretch of the footpath we spotted a birder beside the water, scope set up, bicycle leaning nearby, scanning the pit; presumably Pete. We quickened our pace to catch up with him.

When we had covered about half the distance, Kev suddenly picked up a bird passing through his scope’s field of view and called it out so we could both try to identify it. As usual, he was quick off the mark, suggesting it was our whimbrel. We could make out features that supported the identification and watched as it first circled the far side of the pool, then climbed high and flew strongly away over the houses beyond, disappearing from view. Was that our bird departing? Had we caught it just as it was leaving?

We scanned the north bank and could not see a whimbrel there, then continued on until we met Pete, now mounted on his bicycle and heading our way. After greetings, we mentioned we had just watched the whimbrel fly off. He seemed a little surprised, saying he had last seen the bird on the east bank quite recently, and as far as he knew there was and had only been one whimbrel present over recent days - so perhaps we had been mistaken ...

But as soon as we put the scope down, there was a whimbrel on the far north-eastern corner. Had there really been time for a long flight and a return? It seemed unlikely. Which raised the question: was there more than one?

Kev and I then had a brief discussion about whether to make a full circuit or turn back towards the car park. Kev realised, and probably already knew, that I would want a better photo than I had managed so far, so we pressed on, leaving Pete to continue his circuit in the opposite direction.

As we rounded the eastern bank, we watched the whimbrel work back onto the north bank, with a single little ringed plover in the background, one of three we would see there. Then, unexpectedly, a second whimbrel walked into view. Was this the bird we had seen fly through earlier and apparently return, or another entirely?

Before we could post an update on WhatApp, Pete had already done so, and before long he came round to join us, quickly adding a photo of the two whimbrels to the group.

One bird remained closer to the water but slowly fed its way nearer and nearer to the other, until at one point it approached so closely that it provoked a reaction: the second bird dropped its head, lunged forward, and sent the intruder briefly into the air. After that brief dispute, they resumed feeding together, though now at a more respectful distance.

We continued our walk around the pool and watched as five boats were being rowed up and down the river - two men’s crews, one women’s crew and two singles - with a launch following them back and forth, coaching from alongside and monitoring the stroke. In the reeds along the river’s edge, sedge warbler continued calling and we saw several more, seemingly trying to drown out the song of skylark rising and falling in the fields behind. We had seen six wheatear, three males and three females, but they refused to come close enough for a proper photo, and I decided not to pursue them around the field in search of a better shot.

Back at the car we decided to visit Summer Leys Nature Reserve, despite our earlier discussion that the additional whimbrel might have been the bird reported there the previous day. It would make for a pleasant few hours’ birding regardless, and at this time of year there is usually a chance of seeing and hearing garden warbler - a species neither Kev nor I had encountered yet this year.

We arrived in the car park and chose to make our circuit in the opposite direction to usual, passing a visit to the Pioneer Hide and taking a clockwise route instead. Along the path, Cetti's warbler, sedge warbler and willow warbler called, while butterflies drifted past - first orange-tip, then a holly blue, and perched on a bush we found a green-veined white. We talked about making a few butterfly trips in summer, when some of the intensity of spring birding eases and the migrants are all in and settled.

Shortly after a chiffchaff called from the side of the footpath and it was impossible not to comply with his request for a portrait.

We stopped as Kev mentioned he had heard a bullfinch. I hadn’t picked it up myself, but he was sure of it and said he could still hear the soft, call coming from somewhere nearby - possibly from the two birds that had just dropped into cover behind a bush to our left.

We turned on the Merlin app to see if it would pick anything up, but it remained silent on the matter, even though both of us could still hear the call. Kev, as so often, was outperforming Merlin.

After a short wait, a pair of bullfinches finally emerged. The male slipped out first and headed further along the path, more wary and reluctant to stay, while the female paused briefly to feed in a tree ahead, picking delicately at buds before following after him. They moved quietly and unhurriedly, slipping back into cover as quickly as they had appeared - understated, compact birds, but unmistakably lovely to watch at close range.

Now out along the disused railway track we paused often, listening as warblers called from all around us, the loudest being Cetti's and sedge warblers, both belting out their songs at full volume. Looking out over the water we counted at least eight terns, at times possibly more, and through the scope confirmed them as common tern.

At the sand martin wall there was no activity at all, and we picked our way around the diverted path, currently blocked off to give the birds some protection. There was an effort in 2014, when around 50 nest holes were drilled into the old quarry conveyor loading-ramp wall along the disused railway to provide a more secure and stable nesting site for sand martin. The artificial wall itself serves as protection, offering nesting burrows less vulnerable to erosion than natural banks.

As we rejoined the path on the far side, we came across a Cetti's warbler calling from right beside us, though hidden on the far side of a bush. It then flew into a more open shrub in front of us, at first largely obscured, but gradually worked its way into view, giving Kev and me the chance for a few photographs before it slipped away again into a denser patch of bramble.

Now on the last stretch we stopped to listen to a garden warbler and were initially frustrated that it remained invisible from the path. Eventually we found a small gap through the vegetation where we could watch it, though the view was heavily interrupted by leaves and branches - still enough to claim our first of the year.

This is a good place to encounter garden warbler, particularly from late April into June when males are in full song - they can be elusive and are often heard long before they are seen, but they are regular spring and summer migrants here.

We reached the car park and changed out of our boots for the journey home. Another excellent day out, and it had been good to do some birding a little closer to home for a change, helped by the arrival of so many migrants settling in for the summer.

That evening we chatted and decided it would be prudent to make the trip down to Swineham, near Wareham, to see the red-spotted bluethroat. Our regular white-spotted bluethroat at WWT Slimbridge will fail to return one of these years; it has been around five years since its first appearance, and it seems increasingly unwise to assume we will always get another chance. The Swineham bird, meanwhile, had been giving remarkable views to those walking the narrow trail at the reserve.

So Kev, Karen and I set off at a leisurely 7.00am, driving straight there - not passing go or collecting £200.

We parked on the roadside just outside the entrance to Swanage & Wareham Rugby Football Club and started down the track. Visitors had been asked not to park along the lane itself - at first we were a little concerned by the volume of traffic heading that way, but it soon became clear there was an event on, probably a match, with most vehicles turning into the club, leaving enough roadside space without causing an obstruction.

Partway along the track there was a narrow muddy section to cross, and despite wearing walking boots I decided to leap it. As I took off, I felt a pull in my calf muscle - what an idiot. Over the rest of the walk, I resigned myself to cancelling my Tuesday night pickleball session and did so on the website; there was no way I would be playing with that injury.

It took about twenty to twenty-five minutes to reach the spot, where we found a line of people gathered along the path, waiting for the bird to appear. We joined the back of the group and soon spotted Graham Jepson standing off the path and in the water. He had brought wellies “just in case”, and it was now paying dividends, allowing him to stand where others could not.

Then the bird appeared, and we began to get views. As it came and went, some people drifted away or shifted position, allowing us gradually to edge further and further towards the front. And what a bird it was.

Red-spotted bluethroat are scarce but regular migrants to Britain, and they are generally considered more numerous than white-spotted bluethroats in overall British records. They are Spring migrants, chiefly in May (their classic time) but are also recorded in autumn, especially on east coast migration hotspots. Most red-spotted bluethroats in Britain are brief, furtive and can vanish overnight. A confiding bird lingering for days is much more unusual.

As we watched, a call went up alerting everyone to three glossy ibis flying away from us. Not the best views, or the best photographs I have of the species, but a record for the day nonetheless.

We then settled into a period of waiting, hoping an osprey might fly along the channel as it had done for others in recent days - perhaps even, ambitiously, a white-tailed eagle. There was no such luck.

We did, however, see a number of bearded tits moving through the reeds, their pinging calls carrying across the margins, though I never managed a usable photograph of them.

As we made our way back along the lane to the car, we heard siskin calling overhead and eventually picked one up as it flew across the track and into a tree above us - always good value for the money.

Back at the car we decided to make a diversion on the way home to Pig Bush to see if we could locate any common redstart, as our friends Adrian and Bryan had seen some there the day before. I did not have a hard stop today, as my wife was away playing a pickleball league match and would be home late, so there was time for one more stop.

We reached the car park and took the last remaining space, then made our way through the trees to the far side, leaving the people behind. Kev picked up a firecrest calling, but we did not linger - we were on a mission.

Walking the line between the trees and open heath, it was not long before we heard a common redstart calling, and within a couple of minutes Kev had located it high in the canopy. We followed it as it moved from tree to tree, and occasionally it dropped a little lower, offering a chance for a photograph, though usually with the sky as a difficult backdrop.

It was great to see these birds back. They must be among our most colourful breeding species, and this was a welcome year tick.

We decided to leave this bird in peace and walked further along the edge of the trees. Having lagged behind, I caught up with Kev and Karen, who were already watching another male common redstart, this one lower down and dropping repeatedly from the tree to the ground and back again. As we watched, a female common redstart moved through the shadows below, hopping quietly into view before departing stage right.

We stayed with the male for a while, enjoying better views than the first bird, until a group of walkers with a dog came along the track and brought our entertainment to an abrupt end.

Karen had yet to see a Dartford warbler this year, so we set off in the opposite direction to try to find her one. It took a few hundred metres and around 20 minutes, but eventually we came across two birds - one giving only vocal clues from deep cover, and a second that briefly popped into view on a couple of occasions as it worked through the vegetation.

There must still be good numbers around, as we rarely fail to connect with this species in this area.

Dartford warbler is one of the signature birds of the New Forest National Park, which remains one of its principal strongholds in Britain. Unlike many warblers, it does not migrate to Africa, instead remaining on the heaths throughout the winter, reliant on mature lowland heath with a mix of heather and gorse.

It is also a notable conservation success story. After crashing to very low numbers following severe winters, most famously in 1962–63, the species has recovered strongly thanks to targeted habitat management and increasingly mild winters.

Mission accomplished, we started back towards the car and paused in the trees as we once again heard the call of a firecrest. We scanned the surrounding holly, focusing on movement among the dense foliage.

After a few moments we managed to pick out a bird, and it held long enough in the open for a decent photograph. A great species to round off a great weekend’s birding.

Year list: 231.

Birding home from Fife :: 15-16 April 2026

We’d been invited to join family up in St Andrews, where my brothers were playing golf and staying at a particularly lovely hotel. The weather was glorious, if a little breezy, and we enjoyed some time away with my mum including a scenic drive to Kingsbarns, where we sat overlooking the beach. While there, I noted eider ducks, gannets, guillemot, razorbills, sand martins, sandwich terns, a swallow, and four red-throated divers.

On the final day, we met my mum and youngest brother for breakfast, then spent the rest of the morning with them before they set off for Ayrshire - that left us to make the most of the afternoon. I’d booked a hotel in Glenrothes for that night, so we stayed local and headed to Harbour View in Methil, where surf, white-winged, and Stejneger’s scoters had been reported regularly.

We arrived and climbed up onto the bank to look out over the sea, immediately spotting hundreds of scoters and eider ducks, though the scoters were most distant. Earlier that morning, Charlotte had remarked that the wind had dropped, but by now it had picked up again and if anything, it was even stronger. The sea was rough, and the scoters drifted in and out of view with the swell. We could make out velvet and common scoters; now the challenge was to pick out one of the other three species, each represented only by single birds.

Try as we might, there was no indication that any of the rarer species were out there, or at least none visible through the binoculars or scope. Eventually, Charlotte grew tired of the wind buffeting us and retreated to the car, while I carried on along the wall to see if anything might be visible further to our left.

I kept scanning the water and the scoters, and was able to pick out ten red-breasted mergansers. Further out to the left, I also had distant views of a pair of long-tailed ducks - not as good as the individual at Rushy Common near Oxford, but this time at least in their natural habitat on the sea. I continued looking for something that stood out from the crowd and found more razorbills and guillemot but as for scoters they all appeared as velvets or commons.

I had some lunch in the car with Charlotte, then headed back up to the top of the bank for another scan of the scoters, hoping they might have come closer or reshuffled. No such luck. The only real change was the weather: the earlier broken sunshine had given way to a grey, overcast sky. I spent a while scanning and hoping, but every bird that looked promising turned out, on closer inspection, to be a velvet.

In the end, I suspected I’d probably exhausted Charlotte’s patience, so I returned to the car and suggested we try Lower Largo, where a surf scoter had been reported the previous day - she graciously agreed.

It was still windy, though being less exposed it didn’t feel quite as intense. I set up the scope and scanned the lines of eider ducks, searching for any scoters, and picked out six velvets far out to the right. As I worked that area, a bird flew through; when I swung the scope to follow it, I could see it was a red-throated diver. I saw at least a couple more, all at distance, during the visit. Closer in, but tricky to keep track of in the swell, was another drake long-tailed duck, diving repeatedly.

At least five razorbills were working closer to the far shore, with another lifting off and flying further out from the land. As I followed it, I picked up a Manx shearwater shearing low across the waves. I managed to track it in the scope, but it was far too distant for a worthwhile photo, though that didn’t stop me trying.

To top it all off, the rain set in and drove Charlotte and I back to the car. By now it was around teatime, so we decided to head down to our hotel for an evening meal and some rest. Before turning in, I checked the latest reports and saw that the black-throated thrush had been recorded at Murshiel for a second day. That was enough to make a plan: we’d head there after breakfast. There had also been a hoopoe not far from the site, along with a few other possibilities down the east coast on our way home. I booked a hotel in Middlesbrough, one I’d stayed in before for work, to round off the following day.

After overnight rain, we set off under an overcast sky, with changeable conditions along the route. As we neared the site, the roads became progressively narrower until we were climbing through moorland on near single-track lanes. I mentioned to Charlotte that it looked ideal for grouse habitat, and within minutes I pulled over to point out a red grouse in the heather to our right. With farm vehicles approaching from behind, I put on the hazard lights, grabbed a quick photo, and then moved on.

A few miles further on, the SatNav indicated that we were nearing the area where the black-throated thrush had been reported. As we approached, we spotted a small group of cars pulled in by the roadside, with one birder in the process of assembling his tripod and scope at the back of his vehicle. We pulled in alongside them - there was enough space on the grass to park without obstructing traffic - then grabbed our optics and followed him down to join a handful of others already in place.

Observers had noted the bird feeding in fields alongside a flock of fieldfares, often taking worms and suggesting it would be out in the open rather than tucked away in cover. We asked if it was in view; no one had their optics trained on anything obvious, but we were told it was there, just temporarily obscured by a sheep. Moments later it reappeared, helped by the sheep moving off to the left and the bird hopping to the right. Wow, and a lifer for me.

The black-throated thrush is a scarce but regular vagrant to the UK, prized by birders for its striking appearance and typically brief, unpredictable stays. They breed across central and eastern Siberia and normally winter in parts of southern Asia. Its appearance in Britain is therefore the result of westward vagrancy, most often associated with continental weather patterns that displace birds during migration - there is a bias towards the east coast of England and Scotland, reflecting arrival from continental Europe.

Recent years have seen a slight increase in records, possibly linked to improved observer coverage and reporting, though weather remains the key driver. Multi-day individuals, like those occasionally found in upland fringes or coastal farmland, offer rare opportunities for prolonged views. We had been fortunate and this bird had stayed for us.

We continued watching as people came and went, the weather gradually closing in. Rain began to fall, though we were spared the worst of it under the trees on the opposite side of the road from the field. From our left came the rumble of a large lorry; as it drew level, the thrush lifted, flew to the right, then swung back and disappeared behind, and over, the trees. With the rain settling in, everyone drifted back to their cars in search of shelter.

We figured it might be a while before the bird returned, if it did at all, and felt we’d had reasonable views, so we set off south along a network of narrow lanes and B-roads toward Newcastle, stopping for lunch enroute.

Crossing the River Tweed at Coldstream, we pushed on through roadworks-clogged Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and down to Boldon Flats. A level crossing held us up a couple of miles short of the site, but we eventually arrived to find a single car pulled in by the roadside. Charlotte asked if we should change our shoes; I explained we’d actually be viewing from the pull-in and just needed to locate the bird out on the pools in front of us.

The main pool stretched roughly 100 metres from front to back, and as I scanned the water, I picked out a few avocets, black-tailed godwits, and various duck species. Reaching the far right-hand side of the pool, I found it - the marsh sandpiper we’d come to see. My first had been at Normandy Lagoon a couple of years ago and was very distant; this one was no different, feeding along the back edge of the pool at a full 200 metres.

As it worked its way towards the left-hand side, I hoped it might fly closer to the near edge and halve the distance. Instead, a curlew appeared and walked straight towards it, prompting our bird to turn back and continue feeding along the far side in the opposite direction.

The marsh sandpiper is a notable, rare but regular vagrant to the UK being slim, elegant, and strikingly pale compared with most of its relatives. They breed across the steppe wetlands of eastern Europe and central Asia, wintering mainly in Africa, the Middle East, India, and Australasia. The birds that reach Britain are therefore well off-course, typically arriving as part of wider post-breeding dispersal or weather-driven movements from the east. In Britain it is classified as a scarce vagrant, but unlike many rarities it has become almost annual in recent decades.

It is often described as “a delicate greenshank”, but closer inspection reveals several key features: it has a very slim, long-legged appearance; a fine, slightly upturned bill; pale grey-brown upperparts with clean white underparts; a relatively long neck.

With no immediate sign that our views were likely to improve, I checked BirdGuides and saw that an Iberian chiffchaff was still being reported not far from our route, between our current location and where we planned to stay for the night. We decided to do the sensible thing, packed up, and headed for Hardwick Hall Country Park, parking in the main car park and paying the reasonable fee.

From there we dropped down onto the track running through the trees and followed the path towards the pinned location. Along the way we picked up the usual woodland birds - common chiffchaffs, various tit species, and chaffinches moving through the canopy.

As we neared the indicated area, we picked up the distinctive Iberian chiffchaff call—one of the most useful field characters for separating it from the closely related common chiffchaff. The call itself is typically a clear, disyllabic “hu-weet”, softer and more musical than the flatter call of common chiffchaff. The full song, when given, is more distinctive still, often rendered as a “chiff-chiff-chiff-chiff–dr-dr-dr-dr–swit-swit-swit” sequence, combining a rattling introduction with a series of rising, whistled notes. Below is hopefully a player that gives an impression of the call, not the actual bird we visited. The recording is attributed to Joren van Schie, and recorded in the Netherlands earlier this month.

The Iberian chiffchaff is a scarce but increasingly regular vagrant to Britain. It is a close relative of the widespread common chiffchaff, and for many years it went completely unrecognised in Britain, hidden among the large numbers of its more familiar cousin. Since its identification as a separate species, it has become clear that Iberian chiffchaffs occur in the UK almost annually, though still in very small numbers. Most records involve singing males in spring (April–June), with a smaller number of autumn or winter records likely involving displaced or dispersing birds. Many are found inland at well-watched birding sites, suggesting that detection has improved rather than the species suddenly becoming more frequent.

Initially our bird was high in the tree canopy and calling but from time to time it would go quiet and disappear from view. After a short while we managed to follow the bird a little better as it moved from tree to tree calling and watch as it occasionally dropped to a more manageable elevation.

We waited and eventually we were rewarded with the bird dropping to a height where the background was not just the sky above, but the trees behind, allowing for improved photographs. We were joined by another birder, a Scotsman, who hailed from Galston in Ayrshire, but who was now living locally to here.

Once again the weather closed in and the light began to fade, so we headed back to the car. Charlotte remarked that the Iberian chiffchaff was her bird of the day—it had flitted around us, offered excellent views, and given that beautiful, distinctive call. The following morning, we had breakfast and checked out, knowing we’d be making the journey home. Before heading south, we decided to try our luck for twite around the Seaton Carew and Teesmouth area and made our way to the coast for a walk along the beach.

The wind was strong and relentless again, and dry sand was being blown across the surface and into our faces, but we pushed on regardless. In the fields and along the beach we recorded at least 20 wheatears - excellent to see in such numbers. Otherwise, the day was fairly quiet, with meadow pipits, redshank, curlews, and oystercatchers making up most of the movement. Despite our efforts, we failed to locate any twite.

Seal Sands, on the south side of the River Tees estuary, sits within the wider Teesmouth estuary complex, a landscape shaped by industry and nature in fascinating balance - mudflats, saltmarsh, and tidal channels set against cranes, chimneys, and distant refinery structures. At low tide the site opens out into vast expanses of exposed mud and sand.

Both harbour (common) and grey seals occur here, though harbour seals are typically the more frequently encountered species within the estuary itself. They can be seen hauled out on sandbanks at low tide, lying in loose groups, occasionally lifting their heads as they rest in the wind and sun. Grey seals are generally larger and more robust and may be seen passing through the area or resting on exposed sandbars. What makes seeing seals here particularly memorable is the setting. The seals are part of a working estuary landscape, with the hum of industry in the background and the constant movement of tide, light, and birds around them.

I took a record shot across the estuary mouth of one such group before making our way back to the car for the journey home.

Year list: 226.