North Wales :: 07 June 2026

The weather forecast for Saturday looked decidedly unsettled, so Kev @kev07713 and I had a chat and agreed to postpone our birding until Sunday, when conditions were expected to be rather more favourable.

Late on Saturday morning, however, news broke of a potentially extraordinary find at Foryd Bay, Caernarfon - a western reef heron. As the day progressed, the identification was confirmed as a dark-morph western reef heron, a species never previously recorded in Britain. If accepted by the records committee, it will become the first for the British List.

Western reef herons are medium-sized herons closely related to the little egret, but unlike their freshwater-loving relatives they are true coastal specialists. They inhabit rocky shorelines, sandy beaches, estuaries, and mudflats, feeding in shallow tidal waters on fish, crustaceans and other marine prey.

One of the species' most distinctive features is its variable plumage. Birds occur in two main colour forms: a striking dark morph, with slate-grey to almost black plumage and a contrasting yellow bill base, and a white morph, which can easily be mistaken for a little egret. Intermediate birds, showing a mixture of dark and white feathers, also occur where populations overlap.

The species has a broad but fragmented distribution, occurring along the Atlantic coast of West Africa, around the Red Sea and Persian Gulf, and along the coasts of India and Sri Lanka. Most populations are largely resident, although some make limited seasonal movements.

Although primarily an African and Asian species, western reef herons have reportedly established a tiny breeding population in eastern Spain, making them one of Europe's rarest breeding herons. Elsewhere in Europe they remain exceptional, with occasional records from Portugal, France and Italy, while birds are seen more regularly in the Canary Islands, where they occur naturally from nearby West African populations.

The appearance of one in North Wales is therefore a truly remarkable event and represents an exceptional vagrant far outside its normal range. Exactly what brought this individual to Britain is impossible to say, although unusual weather patterns or natural post-breeding dispersal may have played a part.

Whatever the explanation, the bird has already become one of the most significant rarities to reach Britain in recent years and on the Saturday drew birders from across the country eager to witness a potential addition to the British List. In one report a snapshot of the number of birders currently onsite was 400 with some having already departed and others still arriving. Our venue for birding on Sunday was agreed, and an early night was required.

An early alarm at 2.20am saw me drive round to Kev's, leaving Kev's house promptly at 3.00am, heading north and west past Birmingham and into the heart of North Wales. We opted for the shortest route, which also happened to be the most scenic, and according to the satnav it wasn't expected to take any longer than the alternatives.

Our only stop came around 15–20 minutes from our intended parking spot at Foryd Bay - the same place where we'd parked for the bufflehead back in late December (trip report here). A quick visit to the Co-op provided bacon rolls for breakfast and sandwiches in case we had a wait on our hands; while we were tucking into the rolls an update appeared on our phones.

The news wasn't quite what we wanted to hear. The western reef heron was no longer at Foryd Bay, with early-arriving birders having already searched the area. Fortunately, the update was followed by the information that it had been relocated in Caernarfon Harbour, beside the castle.

With renewed optimism, we reset the satnav and headed for the new location, hoping the bird would remain in place. In truth, it sounded like a better site for viewing anyway, with convenient parking right alongside the harbour.

We pulled into the harbour car park to find a line of birders already scanning across the water, with another couple of dozen spread out along the opposite bank. A footbridge beyond the castle linked the two sides, allowing people to move around in search of the best views.

As we rolled into a parking space, Kev pointed across the harbour and announced that he could already see the bird, and he hadn't even got out of the car! Tick! ... should we move on 😜?

We wasted no time jumping out of the car and heading straight for the harbour wall to make sure we had the bird in view - after all, with a rarity like this, you can never take anything for granted. After grabbing a few quick record shots, we returned to the car to collect our coats and scopes before heading back to the waterfront. This time we could relax, enjoy prolonged views of Britain's first western reef heron and really take in the spectacle.

The reef heron spent much of its time methodically feeding along the muddy water's edge, picking its way through patches of seaweed exposed by the low tide. It moved with deliberate, measured steps, pausing frequently to study the shallow water before making a quick, precise stab at unsuspecting prey. Occasionally it would probe amongst the seaweed searching for hidden worms, shrimps or crabs.

It seemed completely at home in this habitat, quietly stalking its prey through the seaweed-covered shoreline before striking with remarkable speed. The dark plumage contrasted beautifully with the glistening seaweed and brown mud, making for a striking sight against the backdrop of Caernarfon Harbour.

Suddenly the heron took flight, dropping down the shoreline to the right of a viewing platform where several birders had gathered on the opposite bank. Looking along the shore, it was easy to see why - one birder had ventured down onto the edge of the mud and, in doing so, had inadvertently flushed the bird from its feeding area. The culprit then made a slow walk back along the top of the shore to rejoin the group on the platform, although from our vantage point it wasn't obvious whether they could see the heron over the wall.

Fortunately, we had no such problems. It was simply a case of walking a little further along the harbour wall to the left, where we quickly picked the bird up again and resumed enjoying excellent views.

As we settled back behind the scopes, we were joined by Tom Hines @tomhines10. Tom explained that he had travelled up the previous evening, managing only a brief view of the bird out on the estuary before darkness fell and the bird departed, presumably to roost. He had then spent the night sleeping in his car before searching Foryd Bay from first light, eventually making his way into Caernarfon after news broke that the heron had relocated to the harbour.

Before long we were joined by Ewan Urquhart @Stormvogel99, who explained that he and Graham Jepson @GrahamJepson1 had been in Kirkcaldy the previous day seeing the white-winged scoter before dropping everything and embarking on the seven-hour-plus drive to North Wales. Like many others, they had initially expected the western reef heron to be down on the estuary, but news of its relocation had brought them into Caernarfon instead, with Graham still watching from the opposite bank of the harbour.

Not long afterwards, Alan Boddington @alanbodd and John Raven @greatrav1 arrived, setting up their scopes alongside us and quickly getting onto the bird. They too had travelled up that morning and made excellent time, receiving news of the relocation early enough to avoid an unnecessary detour to Foryd Bay before heading straight to the harbour.

After a short spell of feeding, the western reef heron paused to stand quietly on the shoreline, but its presence clearly wasn't appreciated by some of the local residents. A couple of gulls and two oystercatchers repeatedly harassed it, swooping low in an apparent attempt to drive the unfamiliar visitor away. The heron seemed largely unfazed, calmly sidestepping the attacks and continuing to survey its surroundings.

Off to the left, three grey herons were roosting in a nearby tree, prompting me to wonder whether the western reef heron might have spent the previous night there too, after being lost from view as darkness fell on the estuary. It seemed a plausible refuge for such an unexpected visitor, tucked safely away above the harbour until first light.

Then without warning the bird took to the wing again and flew to join the grey herons in the tree, perching facing away from us, but then walking back along the fallen trunk and dropping down onto the muddy shore where it started to stalk and feed along the edge towards the waiting birders on the opposite bank.

As the western reef heron gradually worked its way towards the birders watching from the opposite bank, and with Ewan having set off back around to join Graham, the bird suddenly took flight. It followed the harbour channel upstream, eventually dropping down onto the shoreline before disappearing around a bend.

Almost instantly, groups of birders set off up the road in pursuit, hoping to relocate it further along the harbour. Kev and I, however, decided to stay put. We'd already enjoyed superb views and, rather than joining the stampede, took the opportunity to catch our breath and start planning our next move.

While I had concentrated on taking still photographs, Kev focused on capturing video through his scope using his phone, and he absolutely nailed it. His footage beautifully captured the western reef heron's behaviour as it patiently stalked along the shoreline, picking its way through the seaweed before striking at prey with lightning speed. In many ways, the moving images conveyed far more of the bird's character than the static photos I managed to take.

When Kev posted the clips on X, they were an instant hit and perfectly showcased this remarkable bird in action. You can see the post below ...

3am start for @jkyles32 & I this morning, the Western Reef Heron was our target bird, it was a first for the UK so it was a nervous drive waiting for news, finally, it was still present, it had relocated to Caernarfon, we arrived and were straight on it, what a bird!@BirdGuides pic.twitter.com/5rHT2FHDEg

— Kev heath (@kev07713) June 7, 2026

With our main target safely in the bag, we jumped back into the car and headed for Holyhead Old Harbour, where there is always a good chance of seeing black guillemots. Although I had enjoyed plenty of encounters with the species during my visits to the Ayrshire coast this year, Kev had yet to add one to his year list, and being so close to one of Britain's most reliable sites was an opportunity too good to miss.

Pulling up alongside the harbour wall, we immediately began scanning the water. It didn't take long to pick out a couple of birds swimming over on the far side of the harbour, but before long an even better surprise awaited us as another black guillemot surfaced much closer, affording better views.

The black guillemots in Holyhead Old Harbour are one of North Wales' best-known birding attractions and provide one of the easiest places in Britain to see this attractive auk at close range.

Holyhead's birds nest amongst the crevices, cavities and gaps within the old harbour walls and breakwaters, where they are protected from predators and close to their feeding grounds. They can often be watched carrying small fish back to their nest sites, disappearing into tiny holes in the masonry before re-emerging a few minutes later.

The species is present around Holyhead throughout the year, but late spring and early summer offer the best views as adults are in full breeding plumage and frequently commute between the harbour and nearby feeding areas.

As we watched, a handful of black guillemots flew past in both directions along the harbour, their rapid wingbeats carrying them low over the water. The striking white wing patches flashed brilliantly against their otherwise dark plumage, making them instantly recognisable as they commuted between the harbour and their feeding grounds offshore.

The harbour also held a couple of sandwich terns, with the birds moving back and forth across the water. Their elegant flight, buoyed by long, graceful wings and punctuated by occasional plunges towards the surface, added life to the scene.

The day was still young, and checking the morning reports we saw that a woodchat shrike was still being reported at RSPB South Stack. With only around 20 minutes to go, it made perfect sense to head straight over for a look.

On arrival it was clear that many of those who had been at the western reef heron had had the same idea, with several familiar faces already in the car park. Ewan and Graham were first to greet us, soon followed by Wayne Glossop @WayneGlossop2, confirming we were very much on the right track.

Earlier updates had suggested the shrike was showing on the exposed hillside, where birders were apparently being battered by strong winds while trying to get onto it. In fact, the bird had since sensibly dropped down into the valley below the car park, where it was perched comfortably and in full view - a far more sheltered position given the conditions.

We joined the assembled birders, set up the cameras and scopes, and spent some time enjoying and photographing the bird. It was hard to believe that it had only been a month or so since I finally connected with my first woodchat shrike after a string of near misses, yet here was another - a 1st-summer female.

The bird had first been discovered on 30 May and had shown remarkable site fidelity, remaining faithful to the heathland around the visitor centre and becoming one of the reserve’s standout attractions. Unlike many migrant shrikes that can be frustratingly elusive, this individual was exceptionally obliging, often perched prominently on gorse bushes, fence posts and low shrubs before dropping to the ground to hunt.

At times it could be seen hovering briefly or making short sallies after bumblebees, beetles and grasshoppers, returning to a favourite perch to scan for its next opportunity. The plumage showed a warm chestnut crown and nape contrasting with pale underparts and a darker wing panel marked with bold white flashes.

Its behaviour - repeatedly scanning from a raised vantage point before launching swift, decisive attacks - perfectly illustrated why shrikes are often referred to as “butcher birds”. The prolonged stay was particularly notable given how scarce woodchat shrikes are in Wales, with most Anglesey records involving brief, one-day visits. This individual, however, had remained for over a week, providing hundreds of birders and photographers with extended, close-range views of one of Europe’s most charismatic migrants.

Alan Boddington and John Raven then arrived to complete the group from earlier.

With around 15 minutes still to go before the visitor centre opened, Kev and I dropped down to the cliff edge to scan the sea beyond. Out on the water and on the cliffs there was a steady passage of seabirds: kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills and gannets, and Kev even managed a brief glimpse of a single puffin among the rafting birds.

The wind, however, was relentless, tearing caps from heads and forcing us into an impromptu chase back up the slope before resorting to stuffing them into pockets for safety. It wasn’t the most comfortable of watches, and after a short while we retreated back to the car park to wait for the centre to open.

It was a real joy watching the choughs making the most of the conditions, tumbling effortlessly in the wind. They seemed completely at home in the gale, twisting and dropping through the air with barely a wingbeat, using the strength of the wind to perform their aerial acrobatics over the cliffs.

Once inside, we grabbed coffees and took the chance to sit down with Ewan and Graham for a good long chat - something that doesn’t happen nearly often enough in a day that is usually driven by relocating to find the next bird.

Eventually, with the morning’s birding done, we packed everything into the car and pointed it homewards. As always, the journey back seemed that bit longer than the outward leg.

Year list: 262.

Berkshire nightjars :: 02 June 2026

It is that time of year again when Kev @kev07713 and I make our annual pilgrimage in search of nightjars - a highlight in any birder's calendar. We have a favoured site in Berkshire, a rich mosaic of lowland heathland and mixed woodland that provides an ideal habitat for our target species.

The heathland consists of open expanses of heather, gorse and acid-loving grasses growing on nutrient-poor sandy soils. Over recent years, the area has benefited from extensive conservation work aimed at restoring and maintaining this increasingly rare habitat. Management has included the selective removal of woodland to recreate larger areas of open heath, benefiting a range of specialist wildlife that depends on these conditions.

Surrounding the heath are extensive areas of woodland, including both pine plantations and native broadleaved trees such as oak, birch and beech. Together, these habitats support a diverse range of wildlife, from woodland birds and bats to mammals and a rich variety of ground flora, creating a landscape of exceptional ecological value.

This year, our friend Dave South @davidso55441100 asked if he could join us in search of this elusive summer visitor. He had never seen a nightjar before and was eager to experience for himself the encounters we had enjoyed in previous years. Dave is also one of the finest photographers we know, so having him along offered the added bonus that we might pick up a few tips while we were at it.

After blindfolding Dave, we arrived at our usual parking spot and made the short walk onto the heath. Kev was particularly keen to put his thermal monocular through its paces, so we spent some time wandering the trails scanning the surrounding habitat.

Although the thermal picked up several birds, there was nothing especially noteworthy. Great-spotted and green woodpeckers, nuthatch, wren, chiffchaff, chaffinch, blackbird and various tits all appeared on the screen, but none of the species we were really hoping to find - namely roosting nightjars or woodcock.

I also had a turn with the thermal monocular but fared no better. To be fair, it wasn't a case of operator error; the birds simply weren't where we were looking, or they were tucked away deep within the undergrowth and out of sight.

Eventually, we decided it was time to head for our favoured watchpoint. However, when Dave and I arrived, Kev was nowhere to be seen. A quick call revealed that he had continued further along the track, where he had found a vantage point and a particular tree that he felt would make an ideal perch for any nightjars emerging onto the heath.

I suggested to Dave that we stick with our original plan and remain where we were. After all, this spot had served us well in previous years. Dave agreed, and so we settled in to wait as the light slowly began to fade. Our vigil had begun.

The conditions looked good for an evening watch. The day had been mixed with periods of rain adding to the overnight rain, and even as we made our way down there were some patches of rain. However, the forecast was for improved conditions as we went through the evening. The sun slipped towards the horizon the wind dropped away, leaving the heath bathed in relatively still, calm air.

Nightjars are often most active on such evenings, emerging from their daytime roosts at dusk to hawk for moths and other flying insects over the heathland. Warm temperatures and an abundance of insect prey can make for particularly productive nights.

Woodcock, too, favour these tranquil conditions for their crepuscular displays. As darkness gathers, males leave the shelter of the woodland and begin their distinctive "roding" flights, slowly patrolling territories over the treetops while uttering their characteristic grunts and squeaks. The period from sunset into the first half-hour of darkness is often the best time to witness these remarkable behaviours.

With the light fading and the heath falling quiet, all the ingredients seemed to be in place for an exciting evening.

Out in front of us and slightly to our right, a roe deer appeared from the edge of the heath. Initially wary of our presence, it gradually relaxed and began to work its way across the slope, pausing frequently to browse on the fresh new leaves of saplings and low shrubs. Its rich chestnut coat stood out beautifully against the muted greens and browns of the heathland vegetation.

Roe deer are a familiar sight here, where the mosaic of woodland and heath provides ideal habitat. The woodland offers shelter and cover during the day, while the open heath and scrub provide feeding opportunities, particularly during the quieter hours of dawn and dusk.

As we watched, two more roe deer burst from cover and raced up the slope away from us, their brief dash in stark contrast to the calm demeanour of our original deer, which barely seemed concerned and continued feeding peacefully in front of us.

By about 9.15pm we had our first flyover woodcock, appearing above the treeline, flying with stiff, purposeful wingbeats as it followed its route across the heath. As it passed, its distinctive roding call carried through the still evening air - a series of deep, croaking grunts interspersed with high-pitched squeaks that seemed completely out of place yet instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with this remarkable display flight. It was a welcome sign that the evening was unfolding exactly as we had hoped. A quick message to Kev confirmed that he was seeing the same birds from his vantage point further along the track, so neither of us was missing any of the action.

Over the next twenty minutes, further woodcock appeared at regular intervals, passing overhead singly or occasionally in pairs. By the end of the flurry of activity, we had logged a total of fourteen flyovers. Exactly how many individual birds were involved was impossible to say, as some may well have been making repeat passes along their roding routes, but it was an impressive level of activity, nonetheless.

Kev called to say that he had just heard the brief churring of a nightjar. As I was talking to him, another woodcock appeared, flying towards us from the opposite slope. Then, almost immediately, I spotted a nightjar below it.

I hastily dropped the phone and grabbed my camera, but in my excitement completely fluffed the shot. The bird swept directly over our heads before gliding over the trees behind us and disappearing towards another area of heath. Dave was quicker off the mark and managed to fire off a few shots, although he was left cursing his choice of lens, having opted for one with a wider aperture rather than focal length.

After a quick conversation with Kev, our attention was drawn to the opposite side of the trees as the unmistakable churr and calls of nightjars drifted through the air. Peering through gaps in the foliage, we eventually picked out two birds floating effortlessly above the heath, their long wings carrying them back and forth in the fading light.

Nightjars possess a distinctive flight unlike that of any other British bird. Their long, pointed wings and broad tail give them a buoyant, highly manoeuvrable appearance as they quarter the heath in search of insects. Alternating between deep, elastic wingbeats and effortless glides, they drift through the dusk with an almost moth-like quality, twisting and banking suddenly as they pursue their prey. In poor light they can seem to appear and disappear at will, their erratic, silent flight lending them an air of mystery that perfectly suits their crepuscular habits.

A nightjar began churring repeatedly from the same spot, allowing us to home in on its location. After a short search, we found it perched on a branch in a tree set slightly back from the main woodland edge behind us. We immediately started manoeuvring for a clear line of sight, hoping to secure a photograph, but before either of us could get into a good position the bird suddenly dropped from its perch and melted away into the gathering dusk.

Not wanting to miss another opportunity, we began searching for better vantage points. Dave and I gradually spread out, each exploring different angles and gaps in the trees, trying to identify the best position from which to photograph any nightjars that might appear again. I eventually found a position that gave me a clear view of the tree where the nightjar had briefly perched. A little further to my right stood a broken silver birch, its bare branches looking like the ideal place for a nightjar to use as a churring post. I remember thinking it looked a likely candidate.

Within just a few minutes, a nightjar dropped onto the birch exactly as I had hoped. How's your luck! It was now getting quite dark and I'd lost all ability to maintain a fast shutter speed. I snapped off a few shots before the bird took off - I was very lucky to get the photo that I did with f5.6, ISO 12,800, 1.0 ev, and 1/20 s shutter speed.

I made my way over to where Dave was positioned and was greeted with tales of his views. He had watched multiple nightjars, including one hovering above the treetops, while one bird had dropped into the heath no more than fifteen feet away from him. For someone seeing his first nightjar, it seemed to be a memorable introduction.

Together we watched more birds drift effortlessly through the gathering darkness before returning to our original churring tree, where the nightjar was once again advertising its presence. We managed a few more photographs, but by now the light had all but disappeared. Any hopes of decent images were fading fast, though our enjoyment of the spectacle certainly wasn't.

Eventually, we decided to wander over to Kev's watchpoint and experience the action from his perspective. While he had been less fortunate when it came to finding perched birds, he had enjoyed some fantastic encounters with multiple nightjars fluttering and hawking for insects around him. He predicted, with his usual optimism, that all 120 or so photographs he had taken of birds in flight would turn out to be hopelessly out of focus.

With darkness now making it impossible to follow the birds comfortably, we headed back to the car. Just as we arrived, one final nightjar struck up its churring song from beyond the trees and the car, providing a fitting soundtrack to the end of a memorable evening.

As we drove home, conversation inevitably turned to nightjars and we all agreed on one thing: evenings like this are highly addictive.

Year list: 261.

Saltcoats & RSPB Ham Wall :: 27-30 May 2026

My eldest daughter had been encouraged to take some of her annual leave before the end of June and asked when we might next be heading north to visit my mum in West Kilbride, as she hadn't been to see her for some time. With my mum also having been ill, it seemed the perfect opportunity to arrange a trip.

Once the bank holiday weekend was over, we set off and made the journey north, arriving in time for lunch with Mum and later dinner with her and my brother.

As is often the case on these visits, I like to rise early and spend a few hours birding before breakfast, or at least for as long as the sunrise and available daylight allow. The only question was where to go.

I had been thinking that I should focus on species I hadn't yet seen this year, and a series of posts on the Ayrshire WhatsApp group the previous week helped make the decision. Jason McManus had reported from Saltcoats: "Arctic Skua – 2, Pomarine Skua – 2 singles north, Long-tailed Skua – 23 north." There had been various smaller counts through the month.

Although I was a little late to the party and the wind conditions had changed since those sightings were reported, you never know. With that in mind, I decided that Saltcoats would be my destination for the morning.

I'd never met Jason before, but I knew he was often sea watching from behind Oscar's Café throughout May. So, when I collected my scope from the car and walked around to the usual spot, I assumed the chap sitting on a chair scanning the sea was him. After introducing myself, I discovered it wasn't Jason at all, but a local birder called Dave, who apparently spends quite a bit of time there as well. He explained that Jason had been celebrating his son's football team's latest success and wouldn't be making an appearance that day.

A couple of text messages later, Jason confirmed that the easterly winds were expected to persist until Thursday before swinging round to a more favourable westerly on Friday. That would make Friday the best day for sea watching - and, as it happened, my last day in the area.

Although the conditions weren't ideal, you never know what might turn up, so we set about scanning the water while enjoying long conversations about local birding and sites. At first there was little activity offshore, but then a lone tern passed overhead. I initially assumed it would be a sandwich tern, the species I most commonly encounter along this stretch of coastline during late spring and summer. However, it proved to be an Arctic tern - a welcome surprise and one I had somehow missed on passage through my local region earlier this spring.

Arctic terns are extraordinary birds. Despite their delicate appearance, they undertake one of the longest migrations in the natural world, travelling from their Arctic breeding grounds to the waters around Antarctica and back again each year. It is a journey that can cover tens of thousands of miles and allows them to experience more daylight than any other creature on the planet.

In the field, Arctic terns can be a challenge to separate from common terns, but this bird showed well enough to reveal the long tail streamers and graceful, buoyant flight that make the species so distinctive. Watching it pass by on a breezy Ayrshire morning, it was hard not to marvel at the incredible distances it may already have travelled - and the many thousands of miles that could still lie ahead.

Despite being famed for their extraordinary migrations between the Arctic and Antarctic, Arctic terns are also a familiar breeding bird around Scotland's coasts. They nest in colonies on islands, coastal headlands, beaches and even some freshwater lochs. Indeed, Scotland supports most of the the UK's breeding population, with colonies scattered throughout Shetland, Orkney and the Hebridean islands. As a result, this may well have been a bird remaining relatively local rather than one merely passing through on migration, and given it was heading south at the time.

The UK breeding population is generally estimated at around 53,000–54,000 pairs, of which approximately 47,000 (close to 90%) breed in Scotland.

Manx shearwaters gradually began to appear, although all were at considerable distance and I didn't bother attempting any photographs. The usual common guillemots were present offshore and were joined by a few black guillemots, presumably birds from the harbour, along with several razorbills and what I suspected was a puffin, although the view was too brief and distant to be certain.

Three gulls passed through that caught my attention. They appeared noticeably smaller than the expected herring and lesser black-backed gulls and, at first glance, I wondered whether they might be fulmars or perhaps kittiwakes - they weren't black-headed. A closer look at the photographs later suggesting common gulls.

Most Scottish common gulls move inland to breed, nesting around lochs, moorland, peatlands and islands. By late May many adults will be on breeding territories, so coastal numbers tend to be reduced compared with the large winter flocks seen around harbours, beaches and farmland. That said, it's still perfectly normal to encounter non-breeding or immature birds lingering along the coast or birds commuting between feeding areas and inland breeding sites.

It was an enjoyable morning, with plenty of gannets and shag moving back and forth offshore, although there was surprisingly little activity from any divers and an absence of any skua candidates.

The following morning I decided to return to Saltcoats and repeat my vigil, this time finding myself alone at the watchpoint. A few spots of rain had fallen overnight, but nothing significant or enough to make the ground wet, and the easterly wind was exactly as forecast, accompanied by temperatures a few degrees cooler than the previous day.

From the moment I set up the scope, Manx shearwaters were visible offshore, while good numbers of common guillemots passed by in small groups of between one and eight birds. Looking out towards Lady Isle, around forty gannets were circling and occasionally plunge-diving, presumably after shoals of mackerel.

Lady Isle Lighthouse provides an excellent reference point when communicating sightings to other sea watchers and serves as a distinctive feature on the horizon. It stands on Lady Isle itself, approximately two miles south-west of Troon in the Firth of Clyde. The island was once home to a chapel dedicated to St Mary, from which it takes its name.

Situated on this low-lying island, the lighthouse warns mariners of the dangers posed by Half Tide Rock and Scart Rock, while also aiding navigation through the Firth and towards the harbours of Troon and Irvine. The site's maritime history stretches back to around 1776, when Glasgow merchants established a pair of beacons to assist shipping. One of these was later removed, and the present lighthouse was eventually constructed on the remaining site. When aligned correctly, it guided vessels into a safe channel and anchorage and provided sheltering access for ships bound for Irvine.

This morning proved rather different, with several divers visible offshore almost from the outset. Most appeared to be red-throated divers, although one bird looked rather more like a black-throated diver. Unfortunately, it remained too distant for a confident identification. By the end of the watch, I had counted around half a dozen divers in total, a marked contrast to the previous day's complete lack of activity.

The sighting was particularly encouraging given some of the impressive diver counts recorded recently along the Ayrshire coast. Combined counts reported from the Turnberry to Girvan and Ballantrae to Girvan stretches on a single day produced totals of 39 red-throated divers, 25 black-throated divers and an impressive 104 great northern divers. Quite a tally, and a reminder of just how important these waters can be for divers at this time of year.

Two large birds appeared from the north and steadily worked their way past offshore. As they drew closer, I was able to identify them as a pair of red-breasted mergansers. They would prove to be the only individuals of the species that I saw during my time at Saltcoats.

I was a little surprised not to encounter more. Stevenston Point is only a short distance away and I have traditionally seen much larger numbers in the bay there. During the winter and early spring, this stretch of coast can hold good concentrations of red-breasted mergansers as birds gather in the sheltered bays but by late May, many breeding adults have likely dispersed to their nesting areas, while those remaining along the coast are spread over a much wider area. Non-breeding and immature birds may still be present, but generally in far smaller numbers than earlier in the year.

Three gulls passed at considerable distance and immediately appeared different from the more usual large gulls, such as herring and lesser black-backed gulls. Equally, they were clearly not black-headed gulls. Identification remained uncertain until one bird banked, briefly revealing the distinctive upper wing pattern of a first-summer kittiwake.

Despite the range, the bird's age was apparent from the bold black "M" pattern across the upper wings. Formed by dark markings on the outer wing, coverts and shoulder area, this striking zig-zag pattern is a classic feature of immature kittiwakes and stands out particularly well when a bird turns in flight. Retaining some of the dark markings of its first-winter plumage while beginning to acquire a more adult-like appearance, it proved to be a pleasing identification and a useful reminder to keep an eye on even the most distant gulls.

With black guillemot resident in the harbour, it is perhaps no surprise that they venture out along the nearby coastline from time to time. The first bird flew in directly in front of me, providing great views, and was soon joined by a second.

Their visit was brief, however, and after spending a short while offshore, both birds took to the air and headed back in the direction of the harbour, from where they had almost certainly originated.

One bird attracted my attention as it worked its way across the water among a line of Manx shearwaters. At first glance it appeared to have a strikingly white bill, prompting a closer look through the scope. As it drew nearer, the mystery was resolved - it was simply a cormorant, the apparent white bill being nothing more than the conspicuous white wedge at the base of the lower mandible catching the light.

By now, Manx shearwaters were a constant feature of the watch, with dozens visible offshore at any one time as birds streamed past in both directions.

Three terns appeared together offshore and immediately had me reaching for the scope, hopeful that they might be Arctic terns like the one that had passed through the day before. Sadly, it wasn't to be. A closer look revealed them to be sandwich terns, a much more expected sight at this time of year.

They powered their way along the coast, barely pausing and showing no interest in fishing. Within a few minutes they had disappeared from view, perhaps continuing towards Stevenston Point or Irvine.

My time ran out again and again there was no sign of any skuas.

My final morning arrived and, for the third consecutive day, I found myself heading to Saltcoats. This time, however, I did so with the knowledge that the wind had finally swung around and was now blowing in the favourable direction that Jason had predicted.

After parking up, I unpacked my scope from the car and was about to walk around behind Oscar's when I heard someone call out from behind me. Looking round, I spotted Jason sitting on the steps of the tower overlooking the tidal pools. I wandered across, introduced myself, and joined him for the morning's watch. Apparently, the stronger wind was far less punishing from our position. By way of comparison, Jason pointed out Dougie Edmond, who was perched on top of the tower at the end of the harbour wall, far more exposed to the full force of the elements.

No sooner had I set up my scope than Jason picked up a peregrine hunting offshore. As we followed it through the scopes, he explained that peregrines are sometimes seen making optimistic attempts to catch Manx shearwaters, although their presence can also indicate storm petrels moving through the area. We kept a close eye on it for a while, but eventually lost sight of the falcon and, despite our hopes, there was no sign of any storm petrels.

Three red-throated divers flew through, and I hurriedly tried to get a photograph. Unfortunately, by the time I got the camera onto them they had climbed higher against the sky and were already heading further offshore, leaving me with little chance of a good image. A little later, Jason picked out a common scoter far out to sea, followed shortly afterwards by a puffin, my first of the year, and then I spotted 12 kittiwakes.

As we continued scanning the horizon in the hope of finding a skua, conversation flowed between sightings. We talked about all manner of birding topics, his son's football team and their recent successes, the match he would be attending that evening, and eventually discovered that he knew my youngest brother. Meanwhile, the steady procession of razorbills, common guillemots and Manx shearwaters continued, but still there was no sign of a skua.

Time was slipping away and I had been watching for over two hours when a WhatsApp message arrived from Dougie. He was alerting us to a dark-morph Arctic skua heading in our direction. I hadn't seen the message before the bird suddenly materialised, appearing from the gap between our position and Dougie's watchpoint before powering past behind a shag. At last, a skua!

The encounter caught me slightly off guard and I struggled to get the bird in the camera's viewfinder. By the time I managed to lock onto it, the skua was already some distance away, meaning most of my photographs were taken as it passed in front of us or disappeared into the distance, resulting in a collection of increasingly poor images taken from behind.

I remained for another half hour, hoping for a repeat performance or perhaps a second skua, but none materialised. Eventually I had to head back to the hotel for a shower before breakfast and checkout. Later that afternoon, however, I saw a message from Dougie reporting another dark-morph Arctic skua from Stevenston Point, suggesting there may have been more birds moving through the area that day.

I set off for home with the family in mid-afternoon, eventually arriving back a little after 10.00pm. During the journey, I had been exchanging messages with Kev Heath about the possibility of another birding trip the following morning.

Fortunately, Kev offered to do the driving, which was much appreciated after a long day on the road. We eventually settled on a visit to RSPB Ham Wall, where both a Savi's warbler and a blue-winged teal had been showing from VP1. Kev had attempted to see a different Savi's warbler in Northamptonshire a couple of times in recent days but had only managed to hear it - this offered another opportunity. There was also the possibility of a great reed warbler, although reports suggested it was proving far easier to hear than to see, spending most of its time hidden away in the bushes.

That prospect didn't particularly concern me. Only a few weeks earlier I had spent a considerable amount of time listening to a great reed warbler skulking in the bushes at Belvide Reservoir, so I didn't feel a pressing need to repeat the experience.

We decided against stopping for breakfast on the journey south. With toilets available at the reserve and no real need for a break, we made good progress and arrived at the car park in good time. Better still, an update had already come through confirming that the blue-winged teal had been seen that morning.

Making our way along the track to VP1, we found Kev's sister Karen @hobbylovinglife and her partner Dean @worlebirder among the dozen or so birders already gathered there. Although the teal had apparently been seen earlier, none of those present had apparently seen it but there was a rough indication of where it had last been observed before disappearing into cover. With that as our only clue, we joined the search and began scanning the area in the hope that it would reappear.

Bitterns were exceptionally active throughout the morning. Between bouts of booming, birds regularly took to the air, presumably on feeding flights, and in total through the visit we enjoyed more than half a dozen prolonged views, including many lengthy flights.

A couple of hobbies also appeared over the treeline in front of VP1, providing plenty of distraction while we searched for the teal - there were large numbers of dragonflies and damselflies on the wing. Despite carefully checking every likely candidate, there was still no sign of the target bird. Large numbers of gadwall were scattered across the water's edges, and the blue-winged teal had reportedly been associating with them, but none of the flocks we examined contained anything unusual.

Meanwhile, we could hear the distinctive reeling song of the Savi's warbler carrying from some distance away to our right. Kev swung his scope around in that direction, but for the moment the only bird we could pick out among the reeds was a reed warbler.

Eventually, Kev called me over to his scope and pointed out a bird that we quickly agreed was the Savi's warbler. It was now showing more towards the one o'clock position from the platform. We alerted the other birders nearby, but the warbler promptly dropped back into cover before many could get onto it. Our first for the year.

Fortunately, it proved to be a creature of habit, repeatedly reappearing on almost the same broken reed stem. Although distant, the first few views were particularly satisfying as we were able to link the bird's distinctive reeling song to its movements and exact location. Before long, several others had joined us and were enjoying views of the bird. The bird stayed too distant to allow any photographs and Kev shared that even videoing through a scope was very challenging.

One birder standing behind me stepped forward to look through my scope so that he could get a line on the warbler. Unfortunately, I had neglected to lock the scope head, and it shifted slightly when his binoculars caught it. By the time I managed to relocate the bird, it once again slipped from view into the reeds.

Only later did I discover that the birder was Leon Rice @LeonRice861481 and although we follow each other on X, we had never actually met. We chatted about the day's birding, and he shared that earlier that morning he had visited Dawlish Warren to see his first broad-billed sandpiper before travelling up to Ham Wall, where he was hoping to connect with what would also be a new bird for him - the blue-winged teal.

We continued to enjoy intermittent views of the Savi's warbler, although as the morning wore on it became increasingly reluctant to sing loudly enough for us to hear and there were longer periods between appearances. With the excitement of the warbler beginning to fade, our attention returned to the search for the blue-winged teal.

At one point a report circulated of a garganey out in front of us, but none of us knew who had made the identification and there were plenty of puzzled expressions as we scanned the area without success. Despite many pairs of binoculars and scopes covering the pools, nobody could find a garganey.

What we really needed was for the ducks to shuffle themselves and reveal anything hidden from view. Before long, a marsh harrier drifted across the reserve and provided exactly the disturbance we had been hoping for. Ducks lifted from the margins and shuffled around the pools, prompting a frantic effort to work through every bird both in flight and newly exposed along the water's edge. Despite our best efforts, however, there was still no sign of the blue-winged teal.

Meanwhile, black-tailed godwits wheeled gracefully around the pools before dropping back down, only to repeat the circuit again a few minutes later, adding a constant sense of movement to the scene.

Once this excitement died down, we spent time casually scanning looking for any change in front but also chatted more with the birders around us. Karen and Dean left to go and attempt to connect with the great reed warbler and I started to pay a bit more attention to the dragonflies and damselflies around us. A large chaser dropped on the rail in front of us and then down onto the platform and then onto the grasses beyond.

As I took photographs, I assumed it was a broad-bodied chaser but reviewing the photos I could see it was actually a scarce chaser. Despite their name, they are now more widespread than they once were, although they remain a local and much sought-after species. The Somerset Levels are one of their strongholds in Britain, and late May is an excellent time to encounter them.

The males are particularly striking, their powder-blue abdomens catching the sunlight as they darted back and forth over the water. At first glance they can resemble broad-bodied chasers, but the dark tip to the abdomen and distinctive wing-base markings quickly give them away. Their eyes are bluish-grey, often matching the bluish tone of the abdomen in mature males. Watching them patrol their territories provided a welcome distraction while the search for the blue-winged teal continued.

Other dragonflies were also active, including the more familiar four-spotted chasers patrolling the pools and ditches. I took the opportunity to wander back to the ditch behind the viewpoint, where I found a greater variety of damselflies. Among them were several striking (large) red-eyed damselflies, their vivid crimson eyes standing out immediately in contrast with the otherwise dark, bronze-black body. At a glance they can resemble the more familiar blue-tailed damselfly, but the combination of ruby-red eyes and the metallic sheen to the body makes them distinctive once seen well. The species is widespread across much of England and Wales and has expanded its range significantly over recent decades. It is particularly common on well-vegetated lakes, gravel pits, reservoirs, canals and wetland reserves but less so in northern England and Scotland.

Eventually it was time to call it a day and begin the journey home, stopping only briefly for a sandwich enroute. We had managed to connect with one of our target species, the Savi's warbler, but the blue-winged teal had managed to evade us.

Reports over the following days suggested that we were far from alone in our frustration. The bird continued to prove remarkably elusive, often appearing for only a matter of seconds before disappearing back into cover or flying out of view. I'll continue to keep an eye on the reports, however. It's a smart-looking duck and one that would be well worth another attempt should the opportunity arise.

Year list: 260.