Our discussion about where to go on Saturday was brief. Kev and I had both read the report of a Baird’s sandpiper at Eyebrook Reservoir, and we’d also had an update from our friend Nick Truby, who had seen it earlier on Friday. Kev had already encountered a couple before, one at Goldcliff Lagoons along the beach, where he had relocated it and then together, last August, we’d also seen one at RSPB Frampton Marsh. That day had been windy, with distant, restless flocks of dunlin and ringed plovers, and it was a real challenge to keep track of the bird at times (my report from then is here). Perhaps we'd have better views of this one, if it stayed overnight – although it was to be clear …
We set off early, allowing time for a stop on the way for a roll and a coffee, and arrived at the Eyebrook Corner car park. From there, we scanned the reservoir to see where birders were gathering. Most seemed to be clustered around the bay where the sandpiper had last been reported, across the water from us, while a few stood nearby along the fence. What was worrying, though, was the lack of any fresh updates on social media or BirdGuides. From what we could tell, everyone was scanning the area rather than watching anything specific. A quick chat with the birders beside us confirmed our concern: the bird hadn’t yet been refound.
Equally concerning was the absence of dunlin and ringed plovers, both reported the previous day, along with most of the other waders we’d seen just a couple of weeks earlier. We scanned thoroughly and managed only a couple of snipe, a pair of ruff, and two green sandpipers. In the pool furthest to our right, a couple of cattle egrets were feeding, and in front of them Kev picked out a whinchat, a garganey, and a couple of stonechats.
After a while, we moved further along to the end of the reservoir, hoping for a better angle into the muddy pools, just in case the sandpiper had tucked itself out of view from our current position. The views were clearer, but no new birds revealed themselves. I was still hoping for an osprey sighting but no such luck.
Birders came and went, but none with any sighting, and this was soon reported on BirdGuides - 'negative news'. Interest shifted when word spread that the grey phalarope had reappeared at Rutland Water near the dam. After giving it another hour, we returned to the car, turned it around, and headed off towards Rutland, pausing briefly to enjoy some yellow wagtails and a couple of cattle egrets in with, appropriately enough, the cattle.
Just a couple of weeks earlier we’d been within a mile of the Rutland Water dam, and Kev had already made a visit during the week to see the phalarope. It was good to have another chance now, especially as the year before last we’d managed Wilson’s, grey, and red phalaropes, but none in 2024. We pulled into the car park and took the short walk down to the beach by the dam, the crunch of shells underfoot marking our approach to the water where, even from a distance, we could see the small bird feeding in the shallows.
In breeding plumage they are striking: mostly reddish underparts, with grey upperparts and a bold white face while in non-breeding/winter plumage (the form usually encountered in Britain), they are pale and delicate-looking with white underparts, soft grey above, and a dark eye patch. They are small waders about the size of a dunlin, but with a shorter, finer bill and are generally tame and approachable, often showing little fear of people. They breed in the high Arctic, mainly Greenland, Canada, Svalbard, and Siberia, wintering far out at sea in the tropical oceans, often well away from land. Their appearances here in Britain are essentially stopovers, usually when weather conditions blow them off course.
The grey phalarope fed actively along the water’s edge, moving with a quick, almost restless energy. It picked delicately at the surface, taking tiny invertebrates from the shallows and damp mud - at times it waded a little deeper, pecking rapidly at items just below the surface. Unlike the spinning behaviour it often shows when feeding at sea, here it worked in short, purposeful bursts - probing, picking, and moving on. Its light, buoyant gait and constant activity gave the impression of a bird always in motion, gleaning food from wherever the water lapped against the shore.
It worked along the water’s edge, picking daintily at the surface and probing into the soft mud. Several times it drew out bloodworms, handling them with quick flicks of its bill before swallowing them down. Then, in contrast to this delicate gleaning, it lunged forward and seized what looked like a small stickleback - Kev caught the moment on his camera - very occasionally they can take very small fry or fish eggs if available, but fish are not a regular or important part of their diet. The combination of precise surface-feeding and opportunistic strikes showed just how adaptable its foraging can be.
Although the reservoir was relatively calm overall, the phalarope still had to contend with the constant ripple of small waves breaking into the shallows. Each time a wavelet reached the shore, the bird bobbed lightly, adjusting its balance with quick, nimble movements. It often paused its feeding for a moment as the water lapped against its legs, then immediately resumed picking at the surface or probing into the mud once the disturbance passed.
I crouched to take a few more photos when Kev suddenly called out - he’d gone back to scanning the water after taking plenty of photos himself: “Osprey!”. On the far side, near the sailing club, an osprey had plunged into the water and by the time I got onto it, the bird was flapping hard, lifting itself out. It looked as though it might have a fish, though we couldn’t be certain. Moments later it gained height and drifted out of sight. At last, my first of the year! I’d been waiting since spring, and now I could add osprey to the phalarope on the year list. Before long, it reappeared in the same area, working the shoreline fishing. From a distance it seemed right against the shore, but as always, it was likely an illusion -the bird was probably well offshore, and I've measured at least 1¾-miles away!
Now that September has arrived, the ospreys’ time here is drawing to a close. Within the next few weeks they will almost all have begun their long migration south, leaving behind the reservoirs and lakes that have sustained them through the summer. Their journey will take them across Europe and the Mediterranean, down into Africa, where they will spend the winter in warmer climates and richer fishing grounds.
While scanning to make sure we hadn't missed anything I spotted a yellow-legged gull, my second encounter of the year - to be fair I saw my first just a mile along the shore from here a couple of weeks ago.
We packed up and decided to call in at Hanging Houghton on the way home, hoping to catch up with the harrier that had been reported there a couple of times earlier in the morning. If nothing else, we knew the whinchats were still about and worth the stop. Sure enough, we were soon watching several whinchats, along with both lesser and common whitethroats. Kestrels hunted overhead, while buzzards and red kites drifted lazily across the sky, but there was no sign of the harrier.
As we walked past the set-aside area, a butterfly with striking colouring shot through. Kev immediately shouted “Clouded yellow!” and we both realised at once that neither of us could recall ever seeing one before, though we instantly recognised it. I confirmed the colours and concluded it was a female.
The clouded yellow is one of our most striking migrant butterflies and with its vivid golden-yellow wings edged in bold black, it’s a butterfly that’s hard to miss, though often frustrating to photograph, as it rarely seems to settle.
This species isn’t a UK resident but a regular visitor, arriving from southern Europe and North Africa. Numbers vary dramatically from year to year: in some summers and autumns they can appear almost abundant, while in others only a few scattered individuals are seen. Warm southerly winds often bring them across the Channel, and they are most often encountered between June and October, with late summer and autumn being the peak time.
In Britain, clouded yellows favour flowery grasslands, clover fields, and set-aside strips, though they can turn up inland almost anywhere. They fly strongly and purposefully, often covering large areas quickly, feeding on nectar from clover, thistles, knapweeds and vetches. Breeding sometimes occurs in southern England, but the species cannot survive the British winter.
We spent the next 45 minutes trying to follow it, hoping for a photograph. The butterfly never settled, darting constantly, and with the lens I had on it was near impossible to keep it in frame long enough to lock focus before it disappeared again. The breeze didn’t help either, carrying it swiftly across wide stretches of the field.
With no harrier to be seen and having worked our way around much of the area, we eventually headed back to the car, just as two birders were pulling up. They, too, were after clouded yellows, having seen reports online, and asked us which hedge was known as “Shrike Hedge.” We shared our sightings and then made our way home.
Year list: 234.
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