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.

RSPB Titchwell Marsh :: 12 September 2025

Two red-necked phalaropes have been reported at RSPB Titchwell Marsh from 8 September, so on Friday Kev @kev07713, his wife Karen @karenheath62, and my wife Charlotte made the journey across hoping to see them. The birds have been delighting visitors by feeding actively on one of the freshwater lagoons. Observers noted them favouring the more sheltered edges, where invertebrate prey is abundant - a classic phalarope behaviour, furiously skating on the water’s surface to stir up food.

Titchwell Marsh itself is a perfect stage to see one - covering 171 hectares, this reserve is a mosaic of habitats packed into a relatively small area: reedbeds alive with warblers in the summer, bitterns (if you are fortunate), open freshwater lagoons busy with waders, saltmarsh swept by the tides, pockets of woodland near the entrance, and a broad sandy beach stretching out to The Wash. Each habitat has its own character and community of wildlife, so a walk through the reserve feels like stepping through several different landscapes all in one visit.

The reserve’s welcome centre was open when we arrived, and Charlotte quickly realised she’d forgotten her RSPB membership card. No problem - we were waved through with a smile, reassured that we weren't cheating the system. At the desk, the volunteers shared some news: an osprey had been spotted feeding in the harbour, just up the coast to the north. As soon as the path gave us a clear break in the trees, we set up our scopes and, sure enough, there it was - an osprey at extreme distance, wheeling and diving among the gulls.

Just then, a pair of raptors shot through closer, and Kev quickly picked out one bird with a striking white rump. We followed it through, and I managed to fire off a few photos - could it be a hen harrier? A closer look at the images later confirmed it was in fact a male marsh harrier, simply showing a much more prominent white rump than usual. That’s the challenge and the charm of marsh harriers: their plumage is wonderfully variable. Unlike some raptors with neat, clear-cut markings, male marsh harriers show a whole spectrum of colours as they mature, meaning no two seem quite the same. It’s worth pausing to remember just how special these birds are - once pushed to the edge of extinction in the UK, they have staged a remarkable comeback and are now a regular, almost signature sight over the reedbeds of Titchwell and other reserves around the country.

We pressed on, hopeful that our main target for the day hadn’t slipped away overnight. A quick scan to the left brought our first glimpse of the open water and suddenly, 50 Spoonbills lifted into the air. I hurried to adjust my camera settings for some flight shots; the sky filled with white wings. Just then, Karen called out and pointed upwards: an Osprey was gliding directly overhead - against the clear sky, every detail stood out, long wings angled in that distinctive gull-like shape, as it glided effortlessly across the marsh. Its primary feathers looked pristine, fresh and undamaged, catching the light as it glided. In a couple of minutes, it was gone from view.

September is the perfect time to catch sight of ospreys at Titchwell. By now, most birds have finished their breeding season in Scotland or northern England and are heading south on migration. Their journey will take them down through western Europe and across the Mediterranean, with many crossing the Sahara to spend the winter in West Africa. Watching one glide overhead at Titchwell is a reminder of the sheer scale of that migration - a bird that may have been fishing Scottish lochs just weeks ago could be casting its shadow across the reedbeds here before pushing on to Senegal or The Gambia.

The sight of around 50 spoonbills gathered on the lagoons is an extraordinary number for a single reserve. Standing tall and white against the backdrop of the marsh, they looked almost statuesque at first, until you caught the movement of those unmistakable spatula-shaped bills - the birds were exhibiting their usual behaviour now, back to sleep or preening.

Spoonbills have become something of a speciality at Titchwell in the late summer and early autumn. Many of these birds come from breeding colonies in the Netherlands and France, dispersing to the Norfolk coast to feed and roost before moving further south for the winter. Watching such a large group together is a reminder of how far this once-scarce species has come in the UK, and how important places like Titchwell are as stopovers on their journey.

Spoonbills are still relatively scarce in the UK, but their numbers are growing. As of a few years ago there were only about 29 breeding pairs recorded, mainly concentrated in Norfolk - the UK breeding population was estimated at 73 pairs in 2024. In winter, totals recorded across the UK are usually around 100-150 birds, depending on habitat and arrival from continental Europe. The recovery has been driven by successful colonies like Holkham and new sites popping up in Suffolk, Yorkshire, and Cambridgeshire. It’s a hopeful sign: what was once extinct as a breeding species here is now becoming more regular, and sighting fifty spoonbills at a place like Titchwell feels like a glimpse into what might become the norm.

We continued further along the track and checked with birders already in place where the phalaropes were showing. At first, they weren’t easy to pick out among the busy mix of waders - mostly ruff, black-tailed godwits and dunlin, with the odd snipe tucked in. They others pointed us towards the back of the pool, just beyond a line of resting geese and black-tailed godwits. Scopes up, and there they were - two juvenile phalaropes, tirelessly feeding across the water. At times they kept close company, frantically working side by side; at others they drifted apart, putting a good stretch of lagoon between them. We had heard that the second bird had only arrived a couple of days after the first, doubling the excitement for everyone watching.

Watching across the pool a hobby came into view and started hawking in the sky above us. Hobbies are migratory and return passage peaks in September, as birds move south from their UK breeding grounds so it wouldn't be long until this individual would be on the move - these falcons are often in the last wave of migrants to depart.

Reading updates it appears that one of the phalaropes was predated by a hobby on the following afternoon. It is a stark reminder that even the rarest of birds are part of the natural food chain. For birdwatchers, it’s easy to root for the phalaropes, hoping they will linger for another day of enjoyment, but for the hobby it was simply survival.

With the tide almost at its peak, we decided to head down to the beach, hoping to catch birds out on the water before returning later as the saltmarsh and freshwater pools began to expose more of their muddy edges. A small group of birders were already scanning for the red-throated diver and red-necked grebe reported previously.

Through our scopes we picked out four adult red-throated divers, still showing their rich throat patches, alongside a single juvenile. A lone guillemot bobbed further out, though the razorbill mentioned by others eluded us. As we watched, an osprey appeared further down the coast, fishing along the shoreline. Gradually, it worked its way closer and closer, offering superb views as it quartered the shallows, and our wish came true when it plunged into the sea but unfortunately came up empty handed - magical, nevertheless.

Out over the water, common and sandwich terns passed by regularly, including a few fresh juveniles. I kept scanning in the hope of picking out a black or Arctic tern, but luck wasn’t on my side this time. By September, most common terns are wrapping up their breeding season. Colonies begin to empty as adults and juveniles start heading south - many birds can still be seen staging at estuaries and coastal lagoons, often gathering in mixed flocks with gulls and other terns. Their migration route takes them down through western Europe and along the west coast of Africa, with many wintering as far as South Africa.

We started back to main reserve and along the path came across a handful of people looking into the grass by the track and taking photographs. We stopped to look and found they were looking at a wasp spider - another was found just 10 metres further along. As summer wanes, this striking resident of Titchwell emerges - these orb-weaving spiders are easy to miss unless you’re looking along the long grass edges.

In August, volunteers counted dozens - about 36 on 17 August, then 21 along the West Bank Path by the end of the month, all found in the morning warmth or early evening when their webs glint in the light. The females, especially, are hard to ignore: bold black, yellow and white stripes, on large orb webs.

After mating and laying egg sacs - tough, papery structures usually hidden low in the grass - the adults will die off with the arrival of cooler weather. The webs that seemed so striking in August and early September will gradually vanish. The egg sacs overwinter tucked away in vegetation, protecting hundreds of spiderlings inside from frost and damp. Come spring, the tiny spiderlings hatch and disperse, often ballooning on silken threads to find new patches of grassland.

It takes them a full season to grow, and by the following summer the cycle begins again, with fresh adults and new webs appearing across the reserve. So, when you spot a wasp spider in September at Titchwell, you’re often looking at the closing chapter of the year’s generation.

At the Parrinder Hide, our next target was the pectoral sandpiper, reported to be loosely associating with the ruff. We began scanning carefully, especially toward the back corner where a cluster of birders were already focused on the far end of the Autumn Trail. I can’t quite recall whether it was me or the birder beside me that locked on first, but the shout went up almost simultaneously - there it was.

Even at extreme distance, the bird was unmistakeable, every bit as far off as the one I’d seen at RSPB Snettisham, and perhaps even the same individual working its way along the coast? We tracked it as it picked delicately through the mud and shallows, though it gave no hint of moving closer for a better view or photo.

As we scanned the pools, a shape appeared low in the vegetation - not a bittern or marsh harrier this time, but a Chinese water deer feeding on the scrub. Stocky, ginger-brown, with teddy-bear ears and no antlers, it looked almost out of place until it melted back into the cover of the marsh. These small deer are non-native, introduced from Asia in the early 20th century, but they have found a stronghold in the Norfolk wetlands. Bucks don’t grow antlers but instead sport long curved tusks - upper canine teeth used in displays and sparring during the rut. Most of the time, though, they are quiet, solitary animals, feeding on grasses and herbs in the marsh.

Suddenly there was commotion in the channel to our right - a grey heron had caught a large eel. We watched as it hauled the writhing catch from the water and onto the muddy bank. There, the heron set about dispatching it with brutal efficiency, stabbing repeatedly at the eel’s head until the struggle slowed.

Once the eel was almost still, the heron dragged it back into the shallows to rinse away the mud before, with a couple of deliberate movements, swallowing it whole. The whole sequence was drawn out, far more graphic than words can easily capture - Charlotte could almost have been watching through her fingers.

We returned to the Visitor Centre for a spot of lunch before heading back out along the boardwalk and onto the Autumn Trail. Among the flutter of dragonflies you’ll spot at Titchwell as summer moves into autumn, the common darter is one of the more familiar and reliable species. Bright red in mature males, tawny gold or brown in females and juveniles, these darters dart out from perches to snatch insects in flight, often returning to a favoured twig or stem to eat their catch. They favour the wetland edges, ditches, pools and edges of reedbeds and marshy habitats, where small flies and midges are plentiful - two landed on the boardwalk and we stopped to view and take a couple of photographs.

We walked along the Autumn trail and saw a mixed flock containing long-tailed, bue and great tits as well as some chiffchaff. Out of the reed bed climbed a couple of great white egrets, one eventually departing left and the other circling back and dropping into the reeds. A few decades ago, the Great White Egret was a rare visitor in the UK. Over time, sightings became annual, then breeding was recorded (first successful breeding in the UK was in 2012 on the Somerset Levels - since then their range has expanded significantly and we see them over most of the water-based sites we visit - Kev even had them over his garden (garden tick, if he had a garden list!).

We came to a raised bank, on and over which access was restricted, but from there we could look out across the saltmarsh and a narrow tidal channel. As we scanned, Kev picked out a group of seals hauled out in what looked, oddly enough, like a grassy field. Among them were at least two pups, and I counted around seven in total. It was a surreal sight - quite far from the open sea, yet clearly the channel provided a route inland. When a group of walkers came by, we happily offered them a turn at the scopes for a closer look.

At the viewpoint we scanned carefully, hoping for a closer look at the pectoral sandpiper, but it stayed out of sight. Instead, we picked out at least five lively little stints working the mud. After a while, we paused to weigh up our next move. Rumour has it that the sandpiper often returned to the same channel we’d watched the Grey Heron in, usually around 4.00pm, to feed along the muddy edges. If we set off now, we’d arrive just in time to be in place for its routine appearance.

We walked back around and as we got to the pool holding the phalaropes we stopped to scan the birds in case anything had changed - Charlotte and Karen stopped to watch over the reeds and said they'd catch us up. Just as we were about to move on, I was drawn to one of the gulls. This group of birds is the one I am probably least confident with and so I called Kev to have a look - my thought was Caspian gull - Kev looked and I tried to explain my reasoning - he was on board but not completely convinced - gulls are hard. We set off again and joined a group looking over the pool and asked what they were looking at - it was my Caspian!

As gull watchers know, the appearance of a Caspian gull in the UK is a sign that things are shifting, both for the species itself and for birding in general. Since 1995, these elegant gulls have gone from rare oddities to regular visitors, especially in winter roosts from October through January. What marks one out? A cleaner white head in winter, less streaking than many herring gulls; extensive black on the outer primaries; sleeker proportions - longer legs, neck, and narrower bill. The number of records is rising. As Caspian gull populations grow on the Continent, and birders sharpen their identification skills, it’s likely we’ll see more, perhaps even breeding attempts in the UK. We called Charlotte and Karen, and they joined us for a look as did an increasing number of passers-by.

Back at the Parrinder Hide, the pectoral sandpiper was already showing — still not close, but at least less distant than before. It worked the channel edge methodically, edging nearer with each careful step. We watched in anticipation, though our attention was occasionally pulled skyward by a passing hobby or other fly-bys.

Then Karen brought us back to task: the sandpiper had slipped out of sight, swimming across the channel and vanishing behind a low rise. For ten long minutes it remained hidden, before reappearing farther off, feeding along the water’s edge once more but now moving away. At times it stood quietly among stones, perhaps seeking cover from potential predation, before eventually scurrying further out across the mud. And just like that, our hope of those close, lingering views was gone - we had been given only a partial glimpse of what might have been, and it was unlikely we would get anything better soon.

We scanned the area and picked out a pair of Egyptian geese, along with several little stints feeding along the distant water’s edge, mixed in amongst the groups of dunlin and ruff.

Time was pressing on and we decided it was time to return to the car and head for home. On the way back we saw rather a nice ruff, and I couldn't resist a photo.

It would be too late to get food when we got back home so we stopped on the way at 'The Gin Trap Inn' in Ringstead. The pub has a characterful history welcoming guests since 1668 and is a gem - dating from 1668, this 17th-century coaching inn has a warm, rustic charm, beamed ceilings, old stone walls, cozy nooks. The menu is seasonal and local, with a focus on sourcing ingredients from the land, shore and sea that are as fresh as possible. They often use local seafood (mussels, crab, fish) and other produce from Norfolk and offer both a restaurant and a bar menu. If you’re making a wildlife or birding trip along the North Norfolk coast and want a place with character to stay or stop for a meal, I'd have no hesitation in recommending The Gin Trap Inn.

Year list: 236.