We’d been invited to join family up in St Andrews, where my brothers were playing golf and staying at a particularly lovely hotel. The weather was glorious, if a little breezy, and we enjoyed some time away with my mum including a scenic drive to Kingsbarns, where we sat overlooking the beach. While there, I noted eider ducks, gannets, guillemot, razorbills, sand martins, sandwich terns, a swallow, and four red-throated divers.
On the final day, we met my mum and youngest brother for breakfast, then spent the rest of the morning with them before they set off for Ayrshire - that left us to make the most of the afternoon. I’d booked a hotel in Glenrothes for that night, so we stayed local and headed to Harbour View in Methil, where surf, white-winged, and Stejneger’s scoters had been reported regularly.
We arrived and climbed up onto the bank to look out over the sea, immediately spotting hundreds of scoters and eider ducks, though the scoters were most distant. Earlier that morning, Charlotte had remarked that the wind had dropped, but by now it had picked up again and if anything, it was even stronger. The sea was rough, and the scoters drifted in and out of view with the swell. We could make out velvet and common scoters; now the challenge was to pick out one of the other three species, each represented only by single birds.
Try as we might, there was no indication that any of the rarer species were out there, or at least none visible through the binoculars or scope. Eventually, Charlotte grew tired of the wind buffeting us and retreated to the car, while I carried on along the wall to see if anything might be visible further to our left.
I kept scanning the water and the scoters, and was able to pick out ten red-breasted mergansers. Further out to the left, I also had distant views of a pair of long-tailed ducks - not as good as the individual at Rushy Common near Oxford, but this time at least in their natural habitat on the sea. I continued looking for something that stood out from the crowd and found more razorbills and guillemot but as for scoters they all appeared as velvets or commons.
I had some lunch in the car with Charlotte, then headed back up to the top of the bank for another scan of the scoters, hoping they might have come closer or reshuffled. No such luck. The only real change was the weather: the earlier broken sunshine had given way to a grey, overcast sky. I spent a while scanning and hoping, but every bird that looked promising turned out, on closer inspection, to be a velvet.
In the end, I suspected I’d probably exhausted Charlotte’s patience, so I returned to the car and suggested we try Lower Largo, where a surf scoter had been reported the previous day - she graciously agreed.
It was still windy, though being less exposed it didn’t feel quite as intense. I set up the scope and scanned the lines of eider ducks, searching for any scoters, and picked out six velvets far out to the right. As I worked that area, a bird flew through; when I swung the scope to follow it, I could see it was a red-throated diver. I saw at least a couple more, all at distance, during the visit. Closer in, but tricky to keep track of in the swell, was another drake long-tailed duck, diving repeatedly.
At least five razorbills were working closer to the far shore, with another lifting off and flying further out from the land. As I followed it, I picked up a Manx shearwater shearing low across the waves. I managed to track it in the scope, but it was far too distant for a worthwhile photo, though that didn’t stop me trying.
To top it all off, the rain set in and drove Charlotte and I back to the car. By now it was around teatime, so we decided to head down to our hotel for an evening meal and some rest. Before turning in, I checked the latest reports and saw that the black-throated thrush had been recorded at Murshiel for a second day. That was enough to make a plan: we’d head there after breakfast. There had also been a hoopoe not far from the site, along with a few other possibilities down the east coast on our way home. I booked a hotel in Middlesbrough, one I’d stayed in before for work, to round off the following day.
After overnight rain, we set off under an overcast sky, with changeable conditions along the route. As we neared the site, the roads became progressively narrower until we were climbing through moorland on near single-track lanes. I mentioned to Charlotte that it looked ideal for grouse habitat, and within minutes I pulled over to point out a red grouse in the heather to our right. With farm vehicles approaching from behind, I put on the hazard lights, grabbed a quick photo, and then moved on.
A few miles further on, the SatNav indicated that we were nearing the area where the black-throated thrush had been reported. As we approached, we spotted a small group of cars pulled in by the roadside, with one birder in the process of assembling his tripod and scope at the back of his vehicle. We pulled in alongside them - there was enough space on the grass to park without obstructing traffic - then grabbed our optics and followed him down to join a handful of others already in place.
Observers had noted the bird feeding in fields alongside a flock of fieldfares, often taking worms and suggesting it would be out in the open rather than tucked away in cover. We asked if it was in view; no one had their optics trained on anything obvious, but we were told it was there, just temporarily obscured by a sheep. Moments later it reappeared, helped by the sheep moving off to the left and the bird hopping to the right. Wow, and a lifer for me.
The black-throated thrush is a scarce but regular vagrant to the UK, prized by birders for its striking appearance and typically brief, unpredictable stays. They breed across central and eastern Siberia and normally winter in parts of southern Asia. Its appearance in Britain is therefore the result of westward vagrancy, most often associated with continental weather patterns that displace birds during migration - there is a bias towards the east coast of England and Scotland, reflecting arrival from continental Europe.
Recent years have seen a slight increase in records, possibly linked to improved observer coverage and reporting, though weather remains the key driver. Multi-day individuals, like those occasionally found in upland fringes or coastal farmland, offer rare opportunities for prolonged views. We had been fortunate and this bird had stayed for us.
We continued watching as people came and went, the weather gradually closing in. Rain began to fall, though we were spared the worst of it under the trees on the opposite side of the road from the field. From our left came the rumble of a large lorry; as it drew level, the thrush lifted, flew to the right, then swung back and disappeared behind, and over, the trees. With the rain settling in, everyone drifted back to their cars in search of shelter.
We figured it might be a while before the bird returned, if it did at all, and felt we’d had reasonable views, so we set off south along a network of narrow lanes and B-roads toward Newcastle, stopping for lunch enroute.
Crossing the River Tweed at Coldstream, we pushed on through roadworks-clogged Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and down to Boldon Flats. A level crossing held us up a couple of miles short of the site, but we eventually arrived to find a single car pulled in by the roadside. Charlotte asked if we should change our shoes; I explained we’d actually be viewing from the pull-in and just needed to locate the bird out on the pools in front of us.
The main pool stretched roughly 100 metres from front to back, and as I scanned the water, I picked out a few avocets, black-tailed godwits, and various duck species. Reaching the far right-hand side of the pool, I found it - the marsh sandpiper we’d come to see. My first had been at Normandy Lagoon a couple of years ago and was very distant; this one was no different, feeding along the back edge of the pool at a full 200 metres.
As it worked its way towards the left-hand side, I hoped it might fly closer to the near edge and halve the distance. Instead, a curlew appeared and walked straight towards it, prompting our bird to turn back and continue feeding along the far side in the opposite direction.
The marsh sandpiper is a notable, rare but regular vagrant to the UK being slim, elegant, and strikingly pale compared with most of its relatives. They breed across the steppe wetlands of eastern Europe and central Asia, wintering mainly in Africa, the Middle East, India, and Australasia. The birds that reach Britain are therefore well off-course, typically arriving as part of wider post-breeding dispersal or weather-driven movements from the east. In Britain it is classified as a scarce vagrant, but unlike many rarities it has become almost annual in recent decades.
It is often described as “a delicate greenshank”, but closer inspection reveals several key features: it has a very slim, long-legged appearance; a fine, slightly upturned bill; pale grey-brown upperparts with clean white underparts; a relatively long neck.
With no immediate sign that our views were likely to improve, I checked BirdGuides and saw that an Iberian chiffchaff was still being reported not far from our route, between our current location and where we planned to stay for the night. We decided to do the sensible thing, packed up, and headed for Hardwick Hall Country Park, parking in the main car park and paying the reasonable fee.
From there we dropped down onto the track running through the trees and followed the path towards the pinned location. Along the way we picked up the usual woodland birds - common chiffchaffs, various tit species, and chaffinches moving through the canopy.
As we neared the indicated area, we picked up the distinctive Iberian chiffchaff call—one of the most useful field characters for separating it from the closely related common chiffchaff. The call itself is typically a clear, disyllabic “hu-weet”, softer and more musical than the flatter call of common chiffchaff. The full song, when given, is more distinctive still, often rendered as a “chiff-chiff-chiff-chiff–dr-dr-dr-dr–swit-swit-swit” sequence, combining a rattling introduction with a series of rising, whistled notes. Below is hopefully a player that gives an impression of the call, not the actual bird we visited. The recording is attributed to Joren van Schie, and recorded in the Netherlands earlier this month.
The Iberian chiffchaff is a scarce but increasingly regular vagrant to Britain. It is a close relative of the widespread common chiffchaff, and for many years it went completely unrecognised in Britain, hidden among the large numbers of its more familiar cousin. Since its identification as a separate species, it has become clear that Iberian chiffchaffs occur in the UK almost annually, though still in very small numbers. Most records involve singing males in spring (April–June), with a smaller number of autumn or winter records likely involving displaced or dispersing birds. Many are found inland at well-watched birding sites, suggesting that detection has improved rather than the species suddenly becoming more frequent.
Initially our bird was high in the tree canopy and calling but from time to time it would go quiet and disappear from view. After a short while we managed to follow the bird a little better as it moved from tree to tree calling and watch as it occasionally dropped to a more manageable elevation.
We waited and eventually we were rewarded with the bird dropping to a height where the background was not just the sky above, but the trees behind, allowing for improved photographs. We were joined by another birder, a Scotsman, who hailed from Galston in Ayrshire, but who was now living locally to here.
Once again the weather closed in and the light began to fade, so we headed back to the car. Charlotte remarked that the Iberian chiffchaff was her bird of the day—it had flitted around us, offered excellent views, and given that beautiful, distinctive call. The following morning, we had breakfast and checked out, knowing we’d be making the journey home. Before heading south, we decided to try our luck for twite around the Seaton Carew and Teesmouth area and made our way to the coast for a walk along the beach.
The wind was strong and relentless again, and dry sand was being blown across the surface and into our faces, but we pushed on regardless. In the fields and along the beach we recorded at least 20 wheatears - excellent to see in such numbers. Otherwise, the day was fairly quiet, with meadow pipits, redshank, curlews, and oystercatchers making up most of the movement. Despite our efforts, we failed to locate any twite.
Seal Sands, on the south side of the River Tees estuary, sits within the wider Teesmouth estuary complex, a landscape shaped by industry and nature in fascinating balance - mudflats, saltmarsh, and tidal channels set against cranes, chimneys, and distant refinery structures. At low tide the site opens out into vast expanses of exposed mud and sand.
Both harbour (common) and grey seals occur here, though harbour seals are typically the more frequently encountered species within the estuary itself. They can be seen hauled out on sandbanks at low tide, lying in loose groups, occasionally lifting their heads as they rest in the wind and sun. Grey seals are generally larger and more robust and may be seen passing through the area or resting on exposed sandbars. What makes seeing seals here particularly memorable is the setting. The seals are part of a working estuary landscape, with the hum of industry in the background and the constant movement of tide, light, and birds around them.
I took a record shot across the estuary mouth of one such group before making our way back to the car for the journey home.
Year list: 226.
