A day in North Wales :: 30 March 2026

With the clocks having moved forward an hour on Sunday, we were able to enjoy a lie-in, until around 2.30–2.45am and still arriving in North Wales in time for a black grouse lek at about 6.00am, with sunrise due at 6.42am - even allowing for a breakfast stop along the way. This has become something of an annual pilgrimage, though always a long day, as we planned to continue birding after the grouse before making the lengthy drive back to Banbury.

I picked up Kev @kev07713 at around 3.20am and we headed towards the lek site, stopping a few hundred metres short to get ourselves organised in the car - cameras ready, binoculars to hand, and coffee poured - positioning ourselves so we could both watch from the driver’s side, which offered the best view of the display area. Opening the doors revealed not the gentle breeze that had been forecast, but a stiff, biting wind that almost held them shut. Once outside, my hat was immediately snatched from my head by a sudden gust - fortunately, I have the reactions of a cat 😜 and managed to catch it before it disappeared down the slope.

We pulled in at the roadside to find two cars already parked ahead of us, leaving space for perhaps only one more vehicle behind without blocking the track for passing traffic. It was still dark but as we lowered the windows, we could hear the black grouse and just make out their shapes on the slope - seven birds in total. The wind made the air sharply cold; Kev pulled on his gloves while I zipped up my gilet. At least it wasn’t raining.

As the light slowly improved, we watched and counted again, only to realise that one bird appeared to have gone AWOL, leaving six remaining on the lek. There was still more than half an hour until sunrise, and with the slope backed by a hill, it would be at least fifteen minutes after sunrise before the sun finally crested the ridge and reached us.

A car pulled in behind us and in my rear view mirror I thought that the driver looked like Alan Boddington - likely my first and only positive ID of the day - Kev spun round on the back seats and confirmed that it was and sent him a message asking why he was so late and had needed a lie-in; Kev does like a bit of banter. We then settled down to watch the birds.

As the light strengthened, the black grouse on the lek became easier to watch in detail. These males stood out strikingly against the pale grass, their glossy blue-black plumage catching what little dawn light there was. Each bird held its lyre-shaped tail fanned wide, the white undertail coverts flashing whenever they turned or leapt into the air. The vivid red combs above their eyes glow as they postured and faced one another, heads lowered and wings drooped in exaggerated display.

From time to time, two birds would square up, circling stiff-legged before rushing together in a brief burst of energy, wings flapping and feet skittering across the turf. Between these confrontations they produced a constant chorus of bubbling, cooing calls interspersed with sharp hisses - sounds that carried clearly through the cold morning air.

As the light improved, the black grouse became increasingly active on the lek. The males spread themselves across the slope, each holding a small territory while keeping a wary eye on their neighbours. Much of the activity consisted of ritualised confrontation rather than outright conflict. Adjacent males edged closer in short, deliberate steps, circling one another before breaking into brief chases or rushing together in flurries of wingbeats and kicking feet. These encounters were usually short-lived, with both birds quickly returning to their chosen patches to resume displaying.

Meadow pipits lifted from the far side of the display area like back-garden fireworks, rising in gentle bursts before drifting slowly back down to the ground. Beyond the lek, an unlikely trio passed through - two mallards accompanied by a single male teal - while, in the distance, a lone male wheatear showed briefly.

After watching for a couple of hours, the van in front began manoeuvring to leave, which we took as our cue to do the same. As we pulled out, the two cars behind shuffled forward to take the space we had been occupying. Ahead, another pair of vehicles were parked up overlooking the display area, partially blocking the road, while a car approaching from the opposite direction was forced to pull in so everyone could carefully rearrange and pass.

Once clear, we continued on, setting off in search of red grouse, hoping to find birds perched conspicuously on the heather as we followed the winding single-track road.

A little further along the moor we came across a pair of red grouse beside the roadside, the differences between the sexes immediately apparent. The male stood more boldly in the open feeding, rich chestnut plumage glowing warmly against the heather and his red eye combs giving him a fierce expression. Just behind, the female remained more subdued and cautious, her mottled brown plumage providing excellent camouflage as she fed quietly among the stems. While the male paused frequently to stand upright and scan his surroundings, the female kept lower to the ground, moving deliberately and blending into the moor.

Behind us, we noticed Alan following along the track, and as we pulled into a passing place to let them through, we stopped for a quick chat. They drove on about 100 metres before turning around and passing us again in the opposite direction, explaining that they were heading off to see the long-staying lesser yellowlegs at Rhyl. As we were thinking of doing the same, we agreed we would probably meet again there.

For now, though, we continued along the track in search of more red grouse, adding several more sightings - some reasonably close and others much farther out across the moor.

Along the way we encountered many more meadow pipits, along with skylarks and stonechats. By the time we reached the woods at the end of the track we were ready for another coffee, so we stopped to refill from our flasks, during which a red kite drifted overhead along with two peregrines.

From here, the SatNav on my phone suggested we could continue down the hill rather than retrace our route along the track. As we followed the road alongside a stream, it began to widen and, just as Kev was scanning ahead, a dipper flew upstream right on cue - at least for Kev, as I was concentrating on driving and keeping the car on the road. We quickly pulled over and jumped out to search upstream, but the bird had clearly travelled farther than we could reasonably see.

With that, we set off towards Rhyl.

We arrived at the suggested parking spot and were surprised not to see Alan’s car already there. Parking up, we set off along the footpath towards the riverbank. Gulls and geese stood the fields on either side, while a pair of stonechats flicked up and down along the hedge, the male seemingly escorting us as we made the fairly long walk to the water’s edge.

On arrival, it became clear that the wind here was just as strong, and I quickly realised I should probably have swapped my baseball cap for a woolly hat before setting out. Across the water were scattered gulls, cormorants, black-tailed godwits and a couple of oystercatchers. Kev scanned to our right and picked out many more black-tailed godwits, along with redshank, additional gulls, and a couple of dunlins.

Looking back down the track, we could see Alan approaching with a group of eleven other birders - all volunteers from Warwickshire Wildlife Trust’s Brandon Marsh reserve. They soon joined us scanning the area, and Kev added two sandwich terns to the steadily growing species list. Before long we upped sticks and continued along the footpath towards the spot where Alan had seen the lesser yellowlegs on his previous visit, and where the pinned location suggested it should be.

Before we even reached the area, Alan was already standing with binoculars raised, having relocated the bird. Scopes were quickly set up on tripods while those with cameras attempted record shots of this first-winter individual. The lesser yellowlegs showed well, albeit on the far bank - a delicate and elegant wader. Its first-winter plumage appeared neat and subtly patterned, with soft grey-brown upperparts edged pale, creating a gently scaled effect across the back and wings. The underparts were clean white, marked only by light streaking across the breast, lacking the heavier patterning of breeding adults.

Its long, bright yellow legs stood out even at distance against the muted mud and pale grass. The bill was fine, straight and entirely dark, reinforcing the bird’s dainty structure. Feeding actively and purposefully along the water’s edge, it picked briskly with quick, precise movements while remaining constantly alert.

At times it paused upright, revealing its elegant proportions - long-necked, slim-bodied and slightly attenuated towards the rear - before resuming its steady feeding. At one point the bird flew out over the water and briefly looked as though it might land on our side of the river, only to change its mind and return to the opposite bank, perhaps wisely deciding against settling alongside fourteen eager birders.

Kev and I weren’t quite sure what to do next, but while chatting with the Brandon Marsh group they mentioned they were planning to head to the Great Orme in search of chough - Alan confidently remarking that he had never failed to see them there, a bold claim. It sounded too good an opportunity to miss, and as neither Kev nor I had visited before, it also offered the chance to gather some useful intelligence for future trips.

Birding at the Great Orme has a distinctive feel, the open limestone headland rising above the sea with sweeping views in every direction. The short, grazed turf and rocky slopes create ideal habitat for coastal specialists, and even on a windy day like today there always seems to be movement. Jackdaws and crows drifted effortlessly along the cliff edge, occasionally tumbling in display, while a handful of gulls wheeled below against the backdrop of the Irish Sea.

The main attraction, however, was the chough. We made our way to the car park at the top, where Kev went to buy a parking ticket while I scanned the surrounding fields from beside the car. Almost immediately, I spotted three choughs feeding on the slope below. When Kev returned, we grabbed his scope and headed down the hillside to close at least half the distance.

The three choughs moved across the slopes with buoyant, elastic flight, their glossy black plumage flashing in the sunlight and their long red bills and legs standing out vividly whenever they landed. They fed by probing the short turf, sometimes disappearing briefly into dips in the ground before reappearing further along the hillside, calling with their distinctive ringing notes that carried clearly on the wind.

Reaching a vantage point opposite the birds, we stopped to scan, and before long the Brandon Marsh birders appeared, making their way down to join us. Shortly afterwards, three more choughs flew in and briefly joined the original trio. Having enjoyed good views, and after being thoroughly buffeted by the wind, we decided we’d seen enough, excused ourselves, and headed back up to the café for a sandwich lunch.

After lunch we returned to the car park, where we found some of the Brandon Marsh birders finishing a packed lunch beside their cars. Alan, it seemed, had already moved on, heading down to the cliffs in search of black guillemots - a species he remarked he had missed there only once. Kev still needed the bird for his year list, so we decided to join them, and one of the chaps kindly offered to lead the way if we followed his car.

We soon arrived at the walled cliff edge and looked out over the sea, with Alan commenting on how unusually quite it was on the water was compared to his previous visits. Overhead, a couple of choughs passed through, announcing their presence with their distinctive calls.

We began scanning the water more carefully, working slowly across the surprisingly calm sea in the hope of picking something out. The chap standing next to me mentioned he thought he had a diver far out in front of us - a red-throated diver. It didn’t take long to locate it through the scope, the bird sitting low in the water as it preened before drifting steadily farther from the shore with the gentle swell.

The sea felt unusually quiet, with little surface activity, though occasional gannets passed through in ones and twos, powering low over the water on stiff wings. They appeared to be travelling rather than feeding, continuing purposefully along the coastline without pausing to plunge-dive. Every so often we rescanned the same stretch of water, hoping a black guillemot might suddenly appear among the ripples, the anticipation keeping everyone fixed to their scopes despite the persistent wind.

We could find singles and pairs of common guillemots but none of their cousins - a shame but there was little activity on the water, and we'd given it a good try. On the cliffs were both shag and cormorants, joined by a couple of fulmars. Several fulmars circled effortlessly on stiff, outstretched wings, barely seeming to move as they rode the updrafts rising from the rock below. They glided back and forth, tilting subtly to adjust to the wind, giving distant scope views of their pale grey backs and clean white heads.

From time to time, one would angle towards a narrow ledge, lowering its feet and fluttering briefly as if preparing to land. For a moment it appeared committed, wings half-folded as it touched down, only to change its mind almost immediately. With a quick push and a few shallow wingbeats, the bird dropped away from the rock face and was instantly airborne again, swept outward by the wind before resuming its effortless circling.

This tentative settling seemed repeated again and again - approach, hover, land, then abandon the attempt within seconds - as though the birds were constantly reassessing the ledges in the shifting gusts, never quite satisfied before taking once more to the air.

Alan and the rest of the Brandon Marsh birders began packing up after watching a rock pipit on the rocks behind us, mentioning they were off to continue birding elsewhere. Kev and I stayed a little longer, but we didn’t manage to add anything more to our day list, and eventually set off on the nearly four-hour journey back home. Traffic in Banbury was disrupted by a couple of collisions on the main road from the motorway, delaying our arrival by an additional half hour. It had been a long day, but a thoroughly enjoyable one.

Year list: 210.

North Wales & Wyre Forest :: 26 April 2025

I returned from Scotland and arrived home on Friday evening. Kev and I had agreed to head to North Wales for our annual black grouse trip. With enough time, we also planned to swing by the Wyre Forest to look for some of its specialist woodland species - wood warblers were likely in by now, joining the pied flycatchers.

We settled on a 2.45am departure, aiming to be in position by around 5.00am. Thankfully, I wasn’t driving; I’d already driven a six-hour journey earlier that day and only managed about four hours of sleep. Given the early start and our plan to be in place by sunrise, we packed some breakfast - food and drink we could have in the car, which we’d be using as a hide.

The lek is a traditional ground where male black grouse gather to perform elaborate displays in a bid to attract females. We arrived and found it was still dark, getting to our spot and taking the first place in the pull-in. Looking out from our unusual hide across the open moorland, the sky was still heavy with night, and it was cold with the windows down. The light gradually crept over the hill behind all the time hearing the sound: bubbling coos and rapid hisses - an otherworldly chorus, part gurgle, part hiss. Out of the gloom the black grouse began to materialise, jet black with a white wing-bar, and tail fanned open showing striking white under-tail coverts, their red eye-combs flaring as they display and prepare for battle. They stop, flutter, circle and parallel walk with other males in choreographed aggression, trying to out-perform their rivals. Occasionally fights break out and although it is intense, it is rarely very violent.

As the sun rose, shafts of sunlight poured onto the lek, illuminating the iridescent sheen of the males' plumage. After a couple of hours, the action began to slow and the males started to disperse, the moor beginning to return to silence - although not completely with regular calls from red grouse and cuckoos.

We turned the car and drove back to the car park for a stretch and to see if we could spot any cuckoos - we'd heard them call from this direction. With coffee in hand, we walked down the slope and started scanning with scope and bins, also keeping an eye out for a ring ouzel (we wouldn't find any today). After a while scoping, we found an individual perched on top of a very very distant tree, a second individual passing a little closer but ultimately continuing down the slope to where our first bird was. Then a third appeared with them and this kicked off some chasing and displaying over the trees - it was good to watch but frustrating as it wasn't possible to record any of the action, with the camera or phonescoping.

Content with our views but realising we might not get any better views of the cuckoos, we jumped back into the car and drove passed the lek where numbers had dropped to just a couple of individuals, and then along the track. We were now on the hunt for red grouse - hopefully these wouldn't prove to be difficult.

Spotting red grouse along the narrow winding road that cuts through the heather-clad moor is a quieter, more spontaneous kind of wildlife encounter and less theatrical than the black grouse lek we'd just left. The ground is a mosaic of rich purples and browns and so you have to stay alert to pick out a head that may pop above the heather or sitting on top. At first they appear almost invisible, their russet-brown plumage perfectly matching the scrubby surroundings. But once you see them you seem to get you eye in.

It is a round-bodied bird with a slightly hunched posture, a bold white eye-ring, and a red eyebrow (the eye comb, more prominent in males). Often, they seem to stare at you for a moment and then either duck down, flap and depart (often calling with their "go-back go-back call), or if you are lucky they return to feeding and give stunning views. Their walk is part strut, part scuttle - almost like they are always in a hurry but aren't sure where to go.

Their presence is a sign of the health and character of the moorland, thriving in heather-rich uplands shaped by traditional land use like low-intensity grazing - there’s a strong presence of sheep across this area. We were fortunate to encounter good numbers of red grouse, with several birds obligingly close, allowing us time to watch and photograph their behaviour.

There’s something undeniably special about seeing red grouse this way, often surprisingly near, exuding a proud, slightly wary energy with that unmistakable fierce look. A few sat upright and calm, radiating a kind of quiet confidence. At one point, one even walked right out onto the road ahead of us, as if to remind us of whose ground we were on.

Along the route we came across more meadow pipits and a few wheatears, always keeping the interest going. We paused to look around and I mentioned that we hadn't yet seen a whinchat, and as soon as I mentioned its name one called to our left. We pulled the car in for a look around.

We first spotted a whinchat perched in a tree before it dropped into the valley, where it remained in view but on and off. Luckily, it eventually came closer, giving me the chance to get some clearer record shots. It is not a rarity here but when you find one it feels special - a small upright bird perched on a post or bush, tail flicking and head alert. The male's striking eyestripe, warm orange breast and delicate white throat make him look like a brushstroke of colour. We later spotted a female which is sutler, softer in tone but just as charismatic. They perched low most of the time but occasionally flitted higher giving better photo opportunity.

They flicked back and forth, snapping up insects, tail bobbing. Their call often alerted us where they had relocated to - a soft "whit" or a slightly scratchy song, blending with the calls from meadow pipits and skylarks. It is good have such glimpses as they visit our shores - they are only here a few months, making the encounters even more special.

In a tree to our right a chiffchaff and a willow warbler called, joining in the chorus.

We paused by the woods for breakfast and coffee, surrounded by birdsong. As we stood there, it felt surreal that it was still only mid-morning and that we’d already been birding for hours. After a brief wander through the area, and a final look at the cuckoos, we saw a peregrine dash through before we made our way down to the Wyre Forest for our annual visit.

We followed the main track, ears tuned for any of our target forest species, pausing now and then to scan the slopes below. It wasn’t long before we spotted a pied flycatcher perched high in a tree, showing beautifully in the broken light. It lingered for a few minutes before heading off to hunt. Further along, we picked up the call of a tree pipit, that distinctive descending, cascading song. It took some time, but we eventually located it, high in the canopy among the tallest trees as it relocated and exhibited its characteristic parachuting onto its perch. We waited, hoping it might come closer, but no such luck this time.

Tree pipits are summer visitors, and the Wyre Forest is one of the strongholds where they still breed in decent numbers. Their presence here speaks to the quality of the habitat, open woodland with scattered trees, clearings, and sunny rides.

About a hundred metres along the track, we heard a wood warbler calling from the trees to our right. We spent a good while watching it flit through the branches, pausing often to deliver its distinctive song - what a bird! Last year, we drew a blank here and ended up travelling to Harry's Wood in Northamptonshire, where we were treated to an unforgettable show by an especially bold individual (account here). This one wasn’t quite as showy, but the views were still superb.

We dropped down through a glade and picked out a couple more pied flycatchers, this time also seeing a female. We wouldn't wait long as we wanted to get down to the brook and hopefully catch up with some of the dippers.

We spotted dippers in their usual spot, though as ever, they kept their distance - two birds, one of which flew towards us and beneath and passed the bridge we were standing on. We’d heard reports of another pair further along the river and hoped they might offer a closer opportunity for some record shots.

As we continued, something caught our eye on the forest floor, a beetle we didn’t recognise. It turned out to be a green tiger beetle, a first for us. There it was, perched on the bare earth, shimmering with metallic emerald and bronze, long-legged and poised - an unexpected highlight.

As we neared the bridge where we hoped to find the dippers we heard a blackcap, and then a couple of garden warblers. Elusive at first the garden warblers eventually gave themselves up and I managed a photo I was really pleased with.

As we reached the bridge, we spotted a dipper standing motionless just beyond its edge. Careful not to flush it, I circled around to try for a photo - not bad, I think, though there's always room for improvement. Still, it’s always a joy to see these birds, such stunning little river specialists.

We climbed the slope back up to the main track, spotting more pied flycatchers as we went. It had been a fantastic day out - long, but very rewarding. We began the journey home.